


Bite the Bullet

by AngelOfTheMoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, Castiel & Meg Masters Friendship, Destiel Reverse Bang, Destiel Reverse Bang 2018, Film Noir, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Police Officer Dean Winchester, Private Investigator Castiel, Set in the Early 1950s, Warnings In Author's Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 04:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: Jaded PI and former cop Castiel Novak receives a visit from Dean Winchester, a rookie police officer. Dean wants to hire Castiel to help him with an investigation into Frank Devereaux’s death. It’s been ruled a suicide, but Dean believes the man was murdered. Castiel takes a shine to him and, against his better judgment, agrees to help pro bono. As the two work together, they grow closer. But the case puts their newfound partnership to the test. How will Dean react when he learns Castiel’s secrets? Will they find out what really happened to Devereaux? And when they get caught in the crosshairs of some dangerous individuals, how will they survive?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> This is my entry for this year's Dean/Cas Reverse Bang. Thanks to idjitsaviors, who's been such an awesome partner to work with! She created the banner below and the fantastic art that inspired the fic. (That piece appears in the fic at the end of the first chapter.) Not only that, but she assisted with brainstorming; I wouldn't have been able to write this fic without her help. She also was an invaluable beta. Click [here](https://idjitsaviors.tumblr.com/post/175247432496/here-we-are-this-is-my-deancasreversebang-entry) to check out her art masterpost and show it some love! 
> 
> Thanks also to museaway and jojodacrow for moderating this challenge.
> 
> Most of the fic is rated Teen, but there are a couple of brief moments that merited the Mature rating. Pertinent warnings appear at the beginning of relevant chapters. Two warnings apply to the entire fic: Cas is a heavy drinker, and he smokes a lot. I warned for everything I could think of. If I've missed something, I'm sorry; please let me know, and I'll add in a warning for that element.

Castiel’s ankles were tied to the chair’s legs, his wrists tightly bound together in front of him. Rope bit into his flesh, but the pain paled in comparison to his fear. What would happen next? He would die, certainly. He’d have to; otherwise, Dean would be ashamed of him. For the rest of his life, Dean’s words would constantly run through his brain, the derisive way in which he’d hurled the accusation: “you’re a coward.”

As Castiel awaited his fate, the past few days’ events rolled through his mind.

_When I first met Office Dean Winchester, little could I have imagined where my agreement to work with him would lead—nor how much he would come to mean to me . . ._


	2. 1. First Contact

That fateful morning, Private Investigator Castiel Novak had finally finished up Rachel Engels’s case. It had been a grueling week, searching for her degenerate cousin, whom Castiel had ultimately found hopped up on heroin and hungover in a brothel. But money was money, and it was always welcome.

Castiel settled into the seat behind his desk. After once again counting out the bills he’d received from Rachel, he lit a Lucky Strike. A deep inhale, a hearty exhale. He studied the smoke hovering before his eyes, entranced.

A knock on the door startled him. Another client already? He smiled at his good fortune.

“Please come in,” Castiel called through the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

In strolled the most impossibly attractive man. He stopped a few feet in front of Castiel’s desk, posture ramrod straight, green eyes directly meeting Castiel’s. Not a speck of dirt nor a wrinkle besmirched his black suit. He whipped off his fedora and cradled it in the crook of his elbow, revealing a thatch of dirty blonde hair that perfectly complemented his freckled skin, not to mention his eyes.

Castiel gestured toward the two old black leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. . . . ”

“Winchester. Officer Dean Winchester,” the man replied, proffering a hand.

After their short handshake, Dean perched on the edge of a chair. “I presume you know who I am, Officer Winchester?” Castiel began.

“Yes, Mr. Novak.”

Castiel drew the cigarette away from his lips and dumped the ashes onto a pile overflowing from its tray. Dean winced. Castiel grinned at him. “No need to stand on ceremony with me. Just call me Cas. Everybody does.”

Dean swallowed. “In that case, call me Dean. Please.”

“All right. Dean,” Castiel acknowledged with a slight smile as he stubbed out his cigarette, and Dean’s expression grew serious.

“Cas. I would like to request your assistance with a case.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Is your department not adequate enough?”

“No doubt they are. But I’m the only one who’s been assigned to the case, and I . . . ” Dean blushed. “I could use the help.”

Everything about Dean screamed “rookie.” So what kind of case would the police have given him? A petty robbery? And he needed to consult a private investigator? That didn’t bode well for his career. “I suggest you hone your skills without me. Or perhaps they aren’t adequate for your chosen career?”

Dean scowled at him. “No. It’s not like that.”

“No?” Castiel withdrew another cigarette from his pack and raised it to his lips. Dean eyed the cigarette with disgust. Castiel’s face heated up at the scrutiny, and he placed the unlit cigarette beside the ashtray.

“Do you remember Frank Devereaux’s suicide last week?”

“I vaguely recall hearing something of the sort. Tragic,” Castiel deadpanned.

“It’s no laughing matter.”

Castiel shrugged. “A rich man offed himself. I fail to see why I should find it of consequence.”

“But that’s just it!” Dean fumed. “I don’t think he did.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it was murder. All the evidence—it just doesn’t seem to add it up. And his heirs are swarming around like vultures, eager to snatch up what they can of his fortune. Any of them could’ve done it.”

“His relatives want their inheritance. So what? That doesn’t make them murderers. Frankly, I don’t blame them.”

Dean glared at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What?”

“How can you be so—callous?”

Castiel examined his fingernails, chock full of dirt caked underneath. “If you don’t like my manner, you can always find someone else.”

“You’re all I can afford,” Dean mumbled.

Castiel abruptly raised his head. “What?” He frowned. “Are you paying for this on your own dime?”

“Maybe?” Dean admitted, sheepish.

“That’s lunacy. You still haven’t said what you want from me.”

“I’m getting to that!” Dean snapped. Castiel tsked, but Dean ignored him. “As I said, I think Frank Devereaux was murdered. I’d like you to help me prove it.”

“What does the rest of the police department think?” Dean reddened, and Castiel intuited the truth. “They don’t agree with you.”

“No,” Dean acknowledged.

Castiel studied Dean, who squirmed beneath his gaze. “Is this some sort of extracurricular investigation, then?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My boss has given me leave to look into the matter. Two weeks, then I’m back on the regular beat. But I’ve only been on the job for three months, and I could use another set of eyes.”

Castiel restrained the urge to laugh. “They let you work the case alone?” Dean nodded. “Why, my dear fellow, they’ve set you up for failure.”

“No, they didn’t,” Dean countered indignantly. “They just don’t have enough evidence to believe me yet. And I’m not ‘your dear fellow.’”

“Hmm.” Castiel scratched his temple as he mulled over everything Dean had said. Something in him itched to get involved. His instincts, which he could usually trust, told him Dean was right, though he knew nothing whatsoever of this Frank Devereaux affair.

His elbow bumped the ashtray, causing the ashes to topple onto the desk and scatter to the floor. A mess to clean up. Just what he needed. “Tell you what,” Castiel said. “I will help you with the investigation. Pro bono.”

Dean gaped at him. “What? You’re not going to charge me a fee?”

“Keep your money. I know how little an officer of the law makes.” _Almost as little as me. What the fuck am I thinking, turning down money?_ But for the first time in as long as he could remember, Castiel found himself liking the man he was conversing with. “Besides, you remind me of myself.”

“Right,” Dean scoffed.

“Believe what you will,” Castiel said. “Now, what more can you tell me about the case?”

After Dean and Castiel finished their discussion, Dean departed, and Castiel mulled over how he’d wound up in his current position.


	3. 2. The Disillusionment of Castiel

Castiel had told Dean the truth.

Once, he’d had as much faith in law enforcement as Dean.

Before Castiel opened his PI practice, he’d served as a police officer for three years. His superiors had hailed him as a promising young detective, and he’d been placed on a big case along with three more experienced detectives. The department had been close to bringing down mob boss Alastair Heller’s enterprise, but just when they were about to arrest him, key evidence went missing.

Then someone started slaughtering informants.

The culprit  _ had  _ to be another detective on the case; no one else would’ve known the identities of all the informants. Or perhaps a detective had been tipping Alastair off. Either way, one of the other three men was a rat. Until Castiel knew which one it was, he had to look into the matter on his own.

After weeks of painstaking work, Castiel believed he had solved the mystery. He’d taken photographs of Ivan Ishim meeting with one of Alastair’s lieutenants. Money had been exchanged, and Ishim had passed the man a slip of paper, presumably listing more informants’ names.

As soon as he’d developed the photographs, Castiel hurried to the office of the senior detective on the case, Zachariah Adler, the pictures and a thick sheaf of notes in tow. He knocked on the door but received no response. He knew Zachariah was in there, though; five minutes ago, he’d observed the man heading into his office. Barging in wasn’t appropriate, but Castiel had something urgent to communicate. Lives were on the line, not to mention the case.

Castiel twisted the knob and stepped inside.

He stared at the tableau awaiting him. He rubbed his eyes to dispel what must surely be an illusion, but it didn’t go away.

Zachariah, Ishim, and Bartholomew were gathered around Zachariah’s desk.

Along with them stood Tyson Brady, one of Alastair’s lackeys. He was poised amongst them, counting out bills and distributing them to the other three, as evidenced by the sizable stacks in front of each detective.

“Castiel, please shut the door behind you,” Zachariah said. So blithe, as if he wasn’t engaged in anything questionable whatsoever.

Castiel closed the door and continued to gawk at the scene before him. He held up the photographs in one hand and his notes in the other.

“Alastair is bribing Ishim,” Castiel stated dumbly, as if his pronouncement didn’t also apply to Zachariah and Bartholomew.

Zachariah smirked. “So I’ve noticed.”

“And you . . . you, too? And you, Bartholomew?” Castiel sputtered.

“It makes for a good nest egg,” Bartholomew replied. Castiel glared at him. “Oh, c’mon. Y’know we get paid barely enough to make ends meet. I’ve got a wife and two kids to feed.”

“But it’s . . . wrong,” Castiel gasped.

Zachariah chuckled. “Morality is relative, my boy.” He gestured toward the money on the table. “Some of this could be yours. You just have to keep your big mouth shut.”

Castiel shook his head. “No.” He clutched the papers against his chest. “I have the evidence. Pictures. I’m turning all of you in.”

“You can’t do that, Castiel.”

“I can’t?” Castiel retorted. “Watch me.”

“Who do you think the police chief will believe? The novice or three experienced detectives with a stellar reputation?”

“I have pictures of Ishim.”

“That proves nothing. We’ll say he was working undercover.”

“People are dying!” Castiel thundered.

Zachariah shrugged. “Who cares? They’re low-lives. Drug addicts. Prostitutes. No one will miss them.”

Had he heard Zachariah correctly? “They’re  _ people _ . Their lives matter!” He turned on his heel. “I’ll see you in court.”

Brady clamped a hand around his arm and slammed him against the wall. “Get off me!” Castiel barked as he shoved Brady away.

“I’d think twice if I were you,” Zachariah sibilated as he slithered toward Castiel.

Bartholomew followed his lead. “We’ll say you’re the mole.”

“And you’ll be the one in prison,” Ishim finished as he approached, leering. “And you know what happens to cops in prison?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Castiel grit out.

“Why do something so foolish?” Zachariah asked. He waved a stack of money in front of Castiel’s eyes. “When this could be yours.”

“I don’t want blood money,” Castiel seethed.

“But you will keep quiet,” Ishim hissed. He and Brady each wrapped their hands around Castiel’s neck and squeezed. He couldn’t breathe. Panicking, he suddenly realized now was the moment he would die. But Ishim and Brady released their grip before Castiel could pass out.

“You’ll stay quiet,” Bartholomew said.

“Unless you want to go to prison,” Zachariah put in.

“Or worse,” Ishim added. Castiel shivered, petrified by something in Ishim’s tone he couldn’t place.

After that day, Castiel couldn’t stomach working as a policeman. He had no doubt the corruption went to the top, as Zachariah later remarked to him. To this day, Alastair Heller ruled the city with impunity, and Castiel could do nothing about it. So he drank to blunt the guilt.

_ So, yes, Dean did remind me of myself. One look at Dean, and I knew he was clueless about the filth running rife in the force. _

_ And, well. Guess I’m a sucker after all. I yearned to protect Dean’s innocence. As if that had anything to do with me. _

_ But I knew what it was like to have your world ripped away from you, to learn that evil and malice lay everywhere, that you can’t trust anyone, especially people who claim to be “good.” _

_ Maybe I wished to protect him because I had been unable to protect myself. _


	4. 3. The Case Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some brief suicidal ideation.

Castiel opened up a fresh bottle of whiskey and took a long swig. He eyed the newspapers stacked haphazardly on the floor next to his desk and sighed. In order to help Dean, he needed to know more about Frank Devereaux. Surely there would be an obituary. When did the man die? Recently, so it should be in one of his papers. He didn’t relish flipping through the pages.

When he finally found the relevant obituary, he plonked the whiskey on his desk while he skimmed the column. Frank Devereaux, at sixty-two, had shot himself in the temple. He’d made his money in the stock market during the Roaring Twenties, and he’d been one of the lucky few unaffected by the Great Depression. The man was known for his “endearing eccentricity,” the article read. Castiel snorted at the euphemism. What did “endearing eccentricity” actually signify? Would Dean know?

Devereaux had never been married, nor did he have any children. His fortune would be divided among five heirs: two nieces, Ruby and Lydia Emerson, whose mother, Devereaux’s sister, and father were long deceased; two distant British cousins, Balthazar Angle and Fergus Crowley, who’d moved to town within the last three years; and Dr. Eleanor Visyak.

Dr. Eleanor Visyak? Who was that, and what was her relationship to Devereaux? He and Dean could start the case by paying her a visit.

Devereaux’s death didn’t seem suspicious, at least based on what he could glean from the obituary. Castiel wondered at what angle the bullet had penetrated Devereaux’s skull. The trajectory could indicate that it was impossible for Deveraux to have shot the gun. Was that why Dean suspected murder?

The door swung open, and in sauntered Castiel’s best (and only) friend. She never knocked.

“Hello, Meg,” Castiel said as he picked up the bottle. He’d already consumed almost a fourth of it.

“Hello to you, too, Clarence,” Meg answered as she draped herself in one of the chairs opposite him. When she’d seen _It’s a Wonderful Life_ , Meg had begun addressing him as “Clarence,” a riff on the fact that he was named after an angel.

He gulped down more whiskey, and Meg’s eyebrows climbed.

“What?” he huffed. When she eyed the whiskey with disapproval, he declared defensively, “I have a high tolerance.”

“Sometimes I worry about you, Clarence.”

“Don’t bother,” Castiel muttered. Meg narrowed her eyes at him, and Castiel glanced away. He wasn’t worth the consideration. He felt a sudden kinship with Devereaux. Viscerally. He probably should put a gun to his own temple. He was just existing, living on the margins, taking on petty cases to fund his survival. He didn’t matter to anyone. Maybe Meg, but she’d get over it. God, he was so thankful for Meg. Imagine how tedious his life would be without her visits.—

“Hey, Clarence,” Meg called. “Snap out of it.” Castiel turned back to her, and she continued, “Are you all right?” Castiel nodded, but she frowned, her eyes following the trail of ashes from the desk to the floor. “That’s quite a mess.” Castiel shrugged, and she asked, “What’re you reading in the newspaper?” Fair question. Meg knew that, though he had the paper regularly delivered to his office, he scarcely ever glanced at it.

“The obituary of Frank Devereaux.”

“Why?”

“New case.”

“Oooh. Do tell.”

“This police officer wants me to help him look into Devereaux’s death.”

“Nice. Did you finally find that woman’s cousin?”

“You mean Rachel Engels’s cousin? Yes.”

Meg had given Castiel the tip that had led him to find Ms. Engels’s cousin in a brothel. Meg often gave him tips for his cases. She was the daughter of one of the town’s wealthiest men, Azazel Masters. As a key figure in Alastair’s criminal empire, Azazel had earned his fortune illicitly. Meg acted as Castiel’s informant when needed. She despised her father’s activities as much as Castiel did. He’d met her when she had come to him as a client, asking for his assistance in disappearing. Instead, Castiel had convinced her to stay, arguing that maybe they could fight her father and his ilk in small ways. Like when people came to him looking for missing friends and family members, individuals who’d often wound up getting mixed up in Alastair’s affairs. Meg helped him extricate such people from their situations.

Truth was, however, Castiel had been terrified of honoring Meg’s request. He didn’t know how anyone could escape Alastair’s reach. He had never mentioned that to Meg, but she eventually had come to the same conclusion: Alastair was inescapable.

Meg observed, “Perfect timing for a new case, then.”

“Yes.” He wouldn’t tell Meg he’d taken the case pro bono. She wouldn’t understand.

“Wait a minute. I thought the police hated you.”

“They do.”

“Then why would some cop want your help?”

“He’s a rookie.”

“So he doesn’t know about the department’s corruption.” Castiel nodded. “Lucky bastard,” she mumbled.

“Did you know Frank Devereaux?” Castiel asked. Even if the man wasn’t involved in any illegal activities, he might have run into the Masters family socially. Azazel maintained cover as the owner of a business consulting company.

“I’ve seen him once or twice. Heard he was a really paranoid guy.”

“Paranoid how?”

“I’m not sure.”

How much did Dean know about the reputed paranoia? It was another topic he’d need to ask Dean about tomorrow, when the policeman brought over his files and they started working together.

Castiel lit a cigarette, and Meg swiped one from the pack and shoved it in front of his lighter. “Hit me.” The cigarette kept him calm, and they settled into a companionable silence.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel had just rolled out of bed, thrown on some clothes, and headed to his office downstairs when he heard a knock on the door. He glanced at his watch; it was barely eight a.m. His sign indicated he didn’t open until nine.

The person knocked again. Who the hell could it be? He sighed as he heaved open the door. On the other side stood one bright-eyed and bushy-tailed police officer, looking dapper with his hair perfectly combed and black suit freshly pressed.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean enthused. Castiel hated him. How could he be so chipper in the morning? Castiel merely grunted in response, and Dean replied, “That’s not very polite.”

Castiel pointed at the sign on the door. “Can’t you see I’m not open yet?”

“C’mon, it’s not that early,” Dean declared as he swept inside, one hand clutching a thick bundle of papers. Without preamble, he shuffled toward the desk and plopped himself down in one of the leather seats.

“I thought we should get started,” Dean said as he dropped the papers on the desk and Castiel sank into his own chair.

“It’s too early for me to think right now,” Castiel grumbled.

“Is that why your hair’s so messed up?”

Castiel ran a hand through the hair he hadn’t had time to brush. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

Dean chuckled. “It’s sticking out every which way. Here.” He reached across the desk and patted down the hair. Castiel directed a baleful glare at him, and Dean laughed again. “I don’t think that did anything.”

“Unsurprising.” Castiel’s hair often refused to behave.

“Oh, well. It kind of suits you.”

“Really?”

Dean flushed. “Uh huh.” A compliment. Interesting. Castiel didn’t pay his appearance much mind; he’d figured it was unremarkable. But Dean, he certainly must have people swooning for him all the time—

Dean reached for the first sheet of paper, but he cringed when he noticed the ashes that’d been spilled yesterday. “Still haven’t cleaned that up?”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s gross?”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“It’s disgusting.” He glanced at the hideous brown carpet. “When was the last time you vacuumed?” Castiel shrugged. “Got a vacuum?” Castiel nodded toward the coat closet by the front door. “How about I clean this place up?”

“Why?”

“I don’t like it, okay? Plus, if I’m not paying you . . . well, it’s something I can do.”

“Sure, why not? I haven’t had my coffee yet anyway. I’ll be of more use once I get some caffeine in my system.”

“All right. It’s a deal.”

Castiel fired up the percolator in the kitchen located next to the office. Once the coffee was finished, he poured himself a big cup and guzzled it down, unfazed by its scalding heat. He quickly refilled the cup and prepared one for Dean. By the time he returned to his office, the carpet was a shade lighter, and his desk practically gleamed.

“Wow,” Castiel murmured.

“It’s a lot better, right?” Dean replied.

“Yes.” Castiel could admit that much. He handed Dean his coffee cup.

Dean grinned. “Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean took a sip of his coffee. “Mmm. That’s good stuff, Cas.” He placed the cup on the desk and waved at the papers between them. “This is what I’ve gathered so far.”

“Impressive.”

Dean shifted self-consciously. “It’s not much, really. Just a bunch of background information more than anything. Wanna take a look?”

Castiel considered the sheer number of papers and shook his head. “Why don’t you just tell me the highlights? But first, I have a couple of questions.”

“Go for it.”

“I read Devereaux’s obituary. It seems like a straightforward case of suicide to me.” Dean’s expression grew indignant, but Castiel held up a hand. “So why do you suspect murder? Especially if you don’t have much evidence.”

“I’ve heard a lot about the guy from Sam.—”

“Who’s Sam?”

“My brother.”

“How does he know Mr. Devereaux?”

“Sam works for his lawyer, who Devereaux confided in right before he died. Apparently, the man was paranoid.—”

“That’s what Meg said,” Castiel muttered.

“Meg?”

“A friend of mine. Please continue.”

“Um. Okay. Anyway, Sam dismissed his concerns as the ravings of an unbalanced man, but when Devereaux died, Sam thought there might’ve been some truth to what he said.”

“What did Devereaux say?”

“He thought one of his heirs was trying to kill him, but he didn’t know which one. He set up a bunch of newfangled contraptions to protect himself and detect when someone was on his property.”

“Newfangled contraptions?”

“I don’t know; I don’t really understand how they worked. Also, he didn’t own a gun.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t buy one,” Castiel mused.

“I suppose.”

“Do you know what the angle of the gunshot wound was?”

“What do you mean?”

“At what . . . ” Castiel didn’t know how to word the question differently. “There are certain angles . . . where the bullet, if it hit him from those angles, it would show he couldn’t have been holding the gun when it was shot.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. It wasn’t noted at the scene, and the guy’s been buried by now. Police officers did process the scene and collect evidence. They said they found nothing suspicious, that it was an open and shut case.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know to ask about that. Is that a rookie mistake?”

It was, but it wasn’t Dean’s fault no one had educated him. “No,” Castiel attempted to soothe him. “Someone should’ve taught you about gunshot angles.” He squinted at Dean, trying to read the man but not sure what he was looking for. “How long have you been a police officer?”

“Just a few months.”

“You can’t be expected to know everything yet. You learn through experience.”

Dean sighed. “I guess. I just feel dumb now.”

“You’re not dumb. You seem to have good instincts.” Why did he feel compelled to comfort Dean? It wasn’t the sort of thing he did, not since he’d quit the police department.

Dean reddened at the compliment. “Thanks,” he mumbled. More loudly, Dean said, “It’s the kinda detail Zachariah should’ve looked for, though. He’s experienced enough to know about bullet angles.”

At the mention of Zachariah, Castiel felt as if a block of ice had thudded into his heart. _No one will miss them_. The words reverberate loudly in Castiel’s head, as if Zachariah had spat them out only yesterday. Castiel opened his mouth to reply, but his lips merely flopped like that of a fish out of water, a creature deprived of its life force.

“Cas?” Dean asked. “You all right?”

Castiel forced himself to nod and distracted himself with a draught of coffee. “Yes. It’s just—I was startled is all. I haven’t heard Zachariah’s name in a long time.”

“You know him?”

“I knew him,” Castiel amended, eying his empty coffee cup so he didn’t have to meet Dean’s gaze. “He was my boss,” Castiel said softly.

“You were a police officer?”

Castiel glanced up at Dean. “Yes. He and I, we didn’t get along.”

Across Dean’s face, a smile spread, one that reminded Castiel of a mischievous boy. “No wonder he doesn’t like you.”

“He said that?”

“No, but when I mentioned you, it was obvious.”

“I see.” They needed to change the subject. Castiel wanted to avoid discussing Zachariah. If Zachariah’s name paralyzed him like that again, he didn’t know what he’d say to Dean. He didn’t deserve to have his naïveté stripped away; it was better for him if he never learned about the corruption permeating the city’s police force. Simpler, at least.

If he knew, the police might attempt to draw him into their operation. Would it work? Castiel didn’t think so; Dean seemed so sincere and innocent. But he’d thought he’d known his colleagues, too, back then, and he’d been sorely wrong.

And if he were right about Dean, well, that would be much worse. For Dean could be endangered.

Not to mention that Dean, in his righteousness and certainty, would skewer Castiel for his choices. Rather than fighting the police corruption, Castiel had just left. Like the police department, he was soaked in guilt, even if he wasn’t a part of the unscrupulous machine. He knew what the police got up to, yet he ignored it, keeping to his own sphere.

So Castiel stayed silent about what he knew and steered the discourse back to the case.

“What do we know about Devereaux’s heirs?” Castiel inquired.

Dean dug through his pile and pulled out five photographs. He lined them up as he pronounced their names. Castiel was surprised they were all in color; they must’ve cost a lot of money. “Dr. Eleanor Visyak. An archaeology professor.” A woman with short blonde hair, she appeared to be in her mid-forties. “Balthazar Angle. An antiques dealer.” A man only a few years older than Castiel, with dirty blonde hair and light blue eyes. “Fergus Crowley. Night club owner.” A diminutive man with black hair and dark brown eyes. “And the sisters. Ruby and Lydia Emerson. As far as I can tell, all they do is party. Spoiled brats living on their uncle’s dime.” Two young women, one brunette and one blonde.

“They’re obvious suspects,” Castiel observed.

“You think?” Dean replied. He tapped the first picture. “I’m curious about this Dr. Visyak, though. How does she—did she—know Devereaux? Why don’t we pay her a visit?”

“Isn’t that a little unsubtle? Just going up and questioning everyone?”

“We’ll say we’re a stipulation of Devereaux’s will. That he wanted someone to investigate all of his heirs before the inheritance was distributed. Sam can arrange for the lie to check out.”

 _Brilliant, Dean. Why didn’t I think of that?_ Since Devereaux was known for his paranoia, the excuse made sense. “I suppose the approach will work.”

“Great!” Dean leapt to his feet. “Let’s go, then.”

“We’re taking my car,” Dean said as Castiel drew on his overcoat. Dean gawked at it. “Isn’t that thing a little ratty?”

“It functions,” Castiel remarked. He burrowed into the overcoat, breathing in the comfort only it could provide. “We can’t all afford to dress as sharply as you.”

“Hmmph. Don’t underestimate the importance of a good wardrobe.” _Easy for you to say. You make it look so effortless._

“Why’re we taking your car?” Castiel asked while they walked outside.

They stopped next to a black Chevrolet Series 62. “Because.” Dean gestured toward it. “Look at her.”

“It’s just a car,” Castiel scoffed.

Dean downright _caressed_ the door beneath the driver’s window. “Don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand.”

Castiel rolled his eyes at Dean, but he also bit back a smile. It was strange, how he anthropomorphized his vehicle, but it was also a little adorable. He was just so earnest about it.

The interior was, unsurprisingly, spotless. As he drove, Dean looked at peace, as if he was in his element.

When they arrived at the university, they searched for the archaeology building, which turned out to be a dilapidated brick structure. Dean parked, and they headed inside.

Castiel scanned their surroundings until he discovered a directory farther down the hallway they’d entered. It listed Dr. Visyak’s office as located on the lower level. They directed their steps downstairs, where the temperature felt ten degrees colder. Castiel pulled his trench coat tighter around himself.

They found Dr. Visyak’s office in the back. Outside her door, they paused, and Dean nodded at Castiel to knock. A minute after Castiel rapped on it, the door was thrown open.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked.

“Dr. Visyak?” Castiel ventured. The woman nodded, and Castiel offered his hand, which she accepted. “Castiel Novak. This is my partner Dean Winchester. We were hired by—” Castiel suddenly realized Dean had never told him the lawyer’s name.

“Bobby Singer,” Dean supplied while he shook Dr. Visyak’s hand.

“Frank’s lawyer?”

“Yep. Before Mr. Singer can divide Devereaux’s estate,  my associate and I must conduct a third-party investigation. It was something Mr. Devereaux wanted. A mere formality.”

“Ah. I see,” Dr. Visyak replied.

“Oh, look!” Dean exclaimed as his eyes alit on something in the distance. He trotted across the room and hefted something laying in the middle of a collection of disparate artifacts. “This looks just like a human skull. Look at that detail.”

“That’s because it is a human skull,” Dr. Visyak retorted. Dean screeched and flung the skull away. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t touch anything.” She retrieved the skull and put it back in its place. “These objects are priceless. This is the skull of an ancient Egyptian.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Mr. Deveraux left us with a set of issues he wished for us to ask about,” Castiel said. “They all revolve around the nature of Mr. Devereaux’s death.”

“I thought it was suicide,” Dr. Visyak responded.

“It does appear to be that way.” Castiel pasted on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “We just need to tick all the boxes.”

“How did you know Devereaux?” Dean began.

Dr. Visyak answered, “He was an amateur archaeologist. From time to time, he’d bring me things to assess that he’d bought at auctions.”

“Anything particularly valuable?”

“It’s all valuable,” Dr. Visyak said testily. “It documents our past.”

“You know what I mean. Anything worth any money?”

“Not that he kept. He donated that sort of thing to the department.”

“Like what?”

Dr. Visyak pointed at several figurines and coins, some made of gold, others of stone or wood, encased in glass. “These are rarities from different ancient civilizations. All given to me by him.”

“So you wouldn’t have any reason to harm Mr. Devereaux?” Dean leveled.

Dr. Visyak did a double take at Dean’s harshness. “No. Are you accusing me of something? I thought this was all just routine.”

“It is,” Castiel cut in. A hint of accusation had indeed slipped into Dean’s voice, and it certainly did their cover no favors, not if they wished to convey that Dr. Visyak had nothing to worry about. He needed to take on a more ingratiating tone, or at least sound neutral. Lord knew Castiel didn’t have the friendliest demeanor, but he was never as uncouth as Dean was behaving right now.

“Then why treat me with such hostility?”

“I apologize for my partner’s behavior,” Castiel said. “He is . . . going through a tough time. Still, he shouldn’t let his personal issues interfere with his professional duties.” Dean glared at him, but Castiel ignored the look.

“Still, I must ask,” Castiel continued. “You have no reason to suspect foul play, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“So what did you make of his paranoia toward the end of his life?”

“It was just Frank. He had a habit of jumping to hasty conclusions. We would meet for dinner upon occasion, just to talk archeology, and he’d panic anytime he heard footsteps behind us when we walked to our cars. It was always just someone going about their own business.”

“I see.”

“Is that all? I have work to do.”

“Just one more question. Where were you on the night of Devereaux’s death?”

“I was giving a public lecture. Plenty of people were there. Are we done now?”

“Yes, Dr. Visyak. Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

On the way back to the car, Dean stomped loudly as he followed Castiel. Once they were seated, Dean groused, “Why did you tell her I was having personal issues?”

“You were making her suspicious. I had to deflect it somehow,” Castiel explained. “Haven’t you learned how to modulate your tone? Sometimes you need a tough approach, but at other times, you need to be gentle.”

“Oh.” As Dean drove, a determined look overtook his face. “How about we pay a visit to Balthazar Angle’s antique shop?”

“The Treasure Trove?”

“Yes.”

“As long as you don’t repeat the performance you just gave, that would be fine.”

Soon, they arrived at the Treasure Trove, a small wooden building. Inside, a disparate collection of items awaited them. Old couches and tables, vintage jewelry, rare books, and other knick knacks. Behind the front counter stood a man Castiel recognized from Dean’s photographs.

“Welcome! How may I help you gentlemen?” Balthazar asked.

“We have a few questions for you,” Castiel answered without turning his full gaze on the man. His eye was drawn to a set of watches nearby. Among them lay three pocket watches; Castiel had always appreciated the elegance of such accoutrements.

While hefting a silver pocket watch, Castiel heard Dean inquire, “Do you own this shop?”

So Dean was going to start asking questions before Castiel finished browsing the watches. Well, if he was going to be so rude,  Castiel would let him handle the interrogation alone. It would show him whether Dean had learned from his mistakes with Dr. Visyak.

“Yes,” Balthazar replied. “Do you like what you see?”

“Very much,” Dean said in a warm voice. Castiel rolled his eyes. Dean was laying it on a bit thick, wasn’t he?

Castiel picked up the next pocket watch, this one made of brass, as Balthazar responded, “I like hearing that.” Castiel bristled at the intimacy in his tone. “What are you looking for, Mr.—”

“Winchester,” Dean supplied.

“Winchester.”

“Frank Devereaux,” Dean said. “How well did you know him?”

“He was a cousin I barely talked to. Why do you ask?”

“I represent his estate.”

Balthazar’s voice grew more guarded. “His lawyer was already here.”

“I know. My partner, Mr. Novak over there—” Castiel glanced over his shoulder in time to spot Dean waving at him. “—and I are another provision of Devereaux’s estate. He put in that a third party should be hired to make sure his heirs were worthy of their inheritance.”

Balthazar snorted. “I should’ve known he’d pull a trick like that. The man was paranoid beyond belief. Truth be told, he probably could’ve used some help. Then maybe he wouldn’t have met such a tragic end.”

Balthazar had bought the excuse. Castiel started to examine the last pocket watch, this one gold.

“I was sorry to hear of his passing,” Balthazar declared. “He may have been unbalanced, but he was a kind man.”

“Have you heard of anyone wishing to harm him?”

“God, no.”

“Not even for his money?”

“He would give it to anyone who asked.”

“Ah. Thank you, Mr. Angle.”

“Is that all?”

“For now.” Dean lowered his voice. “But who knows, we may be back.”

“I look forward to it.”

On the back of the pocket watch, Castiel found a set of initials: FD. Had the item belonged to Devereaux?

“Cas, are you coming?” Dean called. Castiel spun around and found Dean standing by the door.

“Just a minute,” Castiel said. He glided toward the checkout counter and set the pocket watch down. “I would like to purchase this.”

Balthazar’s eyes raked over him. “Are you sure? No offense, but I don’t know if you can afford it.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Castiel snapped.

Castiel had barely enough money to pay the cost, but maybe the watch would prove important. He didn’t know how, but it was possible.

Once they were inside the car, Dean observed, “That was bullshit.”

“Pardon?”

“Devereaux was known for his stinginess.”

Castiel frowned. “But I thought the Emerson sisters lived off of his money. And he did give valuable artifacts to Dr. Visyak.”

“There were exceptions. I don’t know about Dr. Visyak, but he felt responsible for the Emerson sisters. They were still children when their parents died. They grew up in his house, but a nanny took care of them.”

“The nanny was left out of the will?”

“Yes. As far as I know, the family lost contact with her once the Emerson sisters reached adulthood and moved into their own house.”

Dean continued, “I have heard he could be generous to those he knew, but he and Balthazar weren’t close. Most people viewed him as a miser. Sometimes he even neglected to leave tips at restaurants.”

“I see.”

They drove in silence until they reached a stoplight. “What’s the pocket watch for?” Dean asked.

Castiel held the item aloft and pointed at the initials. “Do you think this was Devereaux’s?”

“It’s possible.”

“I wonder if it has a secret compartment,” Castiel muttered. He would tinker with it and see. More loudly, he suggested, “Perhaps we should visit Crowley’s club tonight.”

“Tomorrow night,” Dean said. “I’ve got plans with my brother tonight.”

“All right.”

Back at the office, Castiel flung open the door to find Meg inside, which was odd. She could easily pick a lock, but she didn’t usually linger if Castiel wasn’t there. He immediately went on high alert.

“Who’re you?” Dean demanded. “And how did you get in here?”

Meg opened her mouth to reply, but Castiel preempted her. “This is my friend Meg,” Castiel announced while placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I told you about her.”

“I didn’t know she lived with you.”

“I don’t,” Meg sniped, “you rude son of a bitch.”

“Meg!” Castiel exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Meg offered up grudgingly. “I assume _you’re_ the detective working with Cas.”

“Yes,” Castiel confirmed. “Meg, this is Dean Winchester. Dean, Meg Masters.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dean said as he shook Meg’s hand. “I’m sorry for being so rude. I just . . . I thought you were an intruder.”

“It’s all right.”

After they shook hands, Dean mused, “Masters? You related to Azazel?” Meg nodded, and Dean continued, “So you must be rolling in the dough.”

“I guess you could say that.”

Dean scrutinized Meg, and Castiel knew what he was thinking. Meg was wearing black slacks and a faded puffy-sleeved green blouse. She was hardly dressed like the usual heiress.

“Well. See you around. I’ll be back tomorrow, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” Castiel said.

After Castiel heard Dean’s car drive off, he asked Meg, “What’re you doing here?”

“So polite, Clarence,” Meg remarked sarcastically.

Castiel put his hands on his hips. “You know what I mean.”                           

“Yes,” Meg answered, her tone suddenly serious. “And I do appreciate your bluntness. Always have.” She sighed. “Dad was in one of his moods again.”

“Did he hurt you?” Castiel inquired. When things didn’t go his way, Azazel Masters lashed out, taking out his frustration on furniture, his underlings—and Meg.

“It’s no big deal. I just wanted to get out of there.”

She hadn’t answered his question. Castiel approached her, and she backed up until she bumped into the wall. “Let me see,” he demanded.

Meg lifted up her shirt, and Castiel winced at the bruise coloring the right side of her stomach. “Would you like an ice pack?” he offered.

“That would be nice.”

Castiel retrieved an ice pack from the freezer, returned to the office, and pressed the ice against Meg’s stomach. Meg sighed with relief.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

Meg examined him for a long moment, and he squirmed underneath her gaze. Eventually, she declared, “Sometimes, Clarence, I think you’re too good for this world.”

_Not true. If I’d been a good man, I’d have done more to fight the corruption in this city. I would’ve found a way to spirit you away when you’d wanted to flee._

_Watching out for Meg was the least I could do._


	5. 4. The Suspects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: In this chapter, our protagonists learn about a gruesome death.

Dean had other duties at the police station today, so he didn’t come to Castiel’s office until the evening. That was the perfect time to check out Crowley’s club, The Passion Room.

When Dean barged in, he eyed Castiel with disapproval. Probably because Castiel was alternating between guzzling whiskey and smoking a cigarette.

Dean sank into the chair across from Castiel and asked, “Shouldn’t you have waited until we got to the club to start in on the alcohol?”

“I start as soon as I wake up,” Castiel slurred.

“You didn’t drink yesterday,” Dean pointed out.

Castiel frowned and thought about the matter. It was true. In fact, yesterday he hadn’t consumed one drop of alcohol. How odd. He couldn’t remember the last time that’d happened. “That was an exception.”

“Are you sure you aren’t too impaired to visit The Passion Room tonight?”

Castiel snorted. “Hardly. A healthy dose of alcohol lubricates my brain.”

“Or maybe you would think more clearly without it and you just don’t know it.”

Castiel considered Dean’s words then shook his head, which he found slightly disorienting. “Nope.” He tapped his lips with one finger. He and Dean had made a mistake yesterday. He’d meant to mention it to Dean, but now he was finding it difficult to recall. When it hit him, he slammed his palm on the desk, and Dean jumped. “We forgot to see if Balthazar had an alibi!”

“You don’t need to shout,” Dean complained. Oh. Oops. Castiel hadn’t realized he’d yelled. “And I know.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I realized the oversight as soon as I got home yesterday, so I visited Balthazar before I came here.”

“You did?”

“Yep. He was a little too friendly.” Dean shivered.

Castiel cackled, and Dean glowered at him. “He did seem quite taken with you yesterday,” Castiel noted.

“Uh huh.” Castiel couldn’t stop laughing, and eventually Dean snapped, “It’s not that funny!”

Castiel forced himself to suppress his mirth. “It’s just . . . the way you talked to him yesterday. It did give off a certain vibe.”

“Not unless you were looking for it.”

“Untrue. I wasn’t expecting it myself.” Dean averted his eyes. “Proper voice modulation, Dean. It’s a skill you need to learn.”

“So it would seem.”

“Anyway, what was Balthazar’s alibi?”

“Didn’t have one. Said he was cataloging some antiques someone had just donated and after that went straight home.”

“We take Dr. Visyak off the list, then, and Balthazar remains a suspect.”

“Yes. And we’ll see about Crowley tonight.” With that, Dean stood up and proposed they leave.

When they pulled into The Passion Room’s parking lot, Dean wondered, “Are we sure this isn’t some cover for a prostitution ring or something? ‘The Passion Room’ is a suggestive name.”

“It could be,” Castiel acknowledged. However, as far as he knew, The Passion Room was a legitimate business, and Crowley didn’t participate in Alastair’s criminal enterprise. No doubt the place offered the chance to ogle scantily clad dancers, but it stayed on the right side of the law.

Inside, the walls were painted a deep shade of red. The room they entered held several black tables and a stage upon which a burlesque dancer moved sinuously to the beat of a drum. He and Dean passed through into the other room, which featured a bar, a clear space for dancing, black booths lining the walls, and more black tables; music blared from the speakers.

Now they needed to find Crowley and—

“Cas, look!” Dean cried.

Castiel turned to where Dean was pointing across the room at none other than the Emerson sisters, both smartly dressed.

“I’m gonna go talk to them,” Dean announced as he trotted off. When he reached them, Dean donned an ingratiating smile. They were stunning women; Dean would enjoy chatting with them.

Meanwhile, Castiel searched for Crowley. After the bartender poured him a beer, Castiel asked where he could locate the club’s owner.

“He’s in the back,” the young man replied. “May I ask what your business is with him?”

“I am investigating his cousin’s death. Frank Devereaux.”

“Ah. I’ll see if he wishes to speak with you.”

A few minutes later, the bartender returned with a short man Castiel recognized from one of Dean’s photographs.

“Fergus Crowley?” Castiel ventured.

“Yes,” Crowley responded. “Who are you, exactly?”

“My name is Castiel Novak. Devereaux’s will stipulated that a neutral party be hired to ascertain whether his heirs are worthy of his inheritance.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“I have a few questions I’ve been directed to ask.”

“I see.” Crowley waved toward the back. “Let’s talk somewhere with less noise. Follow me.”

Crowley led him to an opulent office. Tapestries hung on all four walls, and couches covered the plush red carpet. One oak desk rested against the far wall.

Crowley gestured toward one of the couches. “Sit.” Castiel settled on it, and Crowley chose a couch next to Castiel’s. “What do you wish to ask me?”

“First of all, how well did you know Frank Devereaux?”

“Not that well, I’m afraid. He did visit my family a few times as a kid. We didn’t really get along then, but we were both bratty rich kids, so what do you expect?”

“Do you know of a reason anyone would want to harm Devereaux?”

Crowley frowned in confusion. “How is that question relevant? I thought he offed himself.” Realizing the unsuitability of his words, he added, “I apologize. That is no way to speak of my cousin’s suicide.”

“Quite right, Mr. Crowley. As I mentioned, these questions were dictated by Devereaux’s estate. What is your answer?”

“He was a misanthrope, but he didn’t harm anyone. All of his heirs are doing well enough not to need his money, though of course it is most welcome.”

“One more question. Where were you the night Devereaux died?”

“Here, of course.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

“I spent most of my time in the office, but I did converse with the head bartender. Arthur Ketch.”

After confirming Crowley’s alibi with Ketch (a man with a disconcerting Celtic cross tattoo on his right hand; there was something chilling about him, though Castiel couldn’t quite put his finger on it), Castiel returned to the bar and found Dean dancing with Lydia. Such behavior was most unprofessional.

Once the song was finished, Dean and Lydia strode toward him. Dean leaned against the bar as Lydia rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m going home with Lydia,” Dean announced.

Castiel gaped at him. That was a most improper action to take; it could compromise the investigation. “What about me? How do I get home without you?”

“Get a taxi,” Dean suggested. Lydia muffled her giggles against Dean’s shoulder before he swept her back to the dance floor.

Well. Dean and he would be having words tomorrow.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel took a swig of whiskey and lit a cigarette. Why the hell was he up so early? Because he hadn’t been able to sleep. Dean leaving with Lydia . . . it made him uneasy.

Even three cups of coffee had failed to wake him up. Maybe the fourth cup would do the trick. He dumped a portion of the whiskey into the coffee and stowed the bottle back in his drawer.

At least Dean probably wouldn’t come over until later. Castiel couldn’t deal with him while feeling this blurry. Meanwhile, he could contemplate the note and tiny key he’d pried out of the pocket watch while he’d been up all night. What could they be for?

But who should come in at eight. Dean fucking Winchester.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Castiel remarked.

Dean did a double take at Castiel’s sardonic tone. “Hello to you, too, Cas.” Dean sank into one of the chairs across from Castiel, his limbs relaxed. _Just make yourself right at home, then_.

“What the fuck were you thinking last night?” Castiel seethed.

Dean had the gall to look puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Going home with Lydia Emerson.”

“I—”

“She’s not the sort of dame you should have a roll in the hay with! She’s a _murder suspect_ , Dean! It’s unprofessional!”

Dean abruptly adopted a steely expression. “Unprofessional, huh? You wanna know what’s unprofessional? You and your damn constant drinking.” He tapped Castiel’s mug. “I bet half of this is whiskey.”

“That’s different,” Castiel mumbled.

“Really?” Dean scoffed. “What makes it so different?”

“It has no bearing on our investigation.”

“It warps your judgment.”

“I told you, it helps me think.”

“Bullshit.” Dean paused. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but we didn’t do anything.” He reddened. “Okay, so we did kiss, but that was it. I did it _for_ the investigation.”

Castiel snorted. “Pray tell, how is exchanging smooches with an attractive woman ‘for the investigation’?” With the last three words, Castiel formed quotation marks with his fingers to emphasize his ironic tone.

Out of nowhere, Castiel was hit by an intense desire to kiss Dean himself. What would it be like? He had a nice set of lips, so plush—would they be as soft and tender as they looked?

What was wrong with him? He didn’t even know Dean, not really. The man was probably just as rotten as the rest of the police force. Either that, or he had poor judgment. Getting cozy with a murder suspect was the height of impropriety.

Castiel took a deep inhale from his cigarette. When he exhaled, he blew a large cloud in Dean’s direction, and Dean coughed. As Castiel stubbed out the cigarette, Dean scowled at him but didn’t comment.

“We went to her house. The one she shares with her sister. I thought I could look around and see if I found something and ask about their alibis.”

“What were their alibis?” Castiel questioned.

“They were both at a friend’s house all night. Partying with Sarah Blake. She confirmed the story.”

“Did you find anything in the house?” _And what about the kiss?_ With a stab of envy _,_ Castiel hoped Dean had hated it. He still didn’t understand where this unexpected attraction to Dean was coming from. But no matter the reason for it, Castiel had to ensure Dean didn’t suspect its existence.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “A few things, actually.”

“Do tell.”

“They’ve boxed up almost all of their possessions. They plan to move into Devereaux’s house in only three days.”

“Not surprising,” Castiel observed. “They inherited the house, so why not move into it?”

“You don’t think it’s a little too soon?” Castiel shrugged, so Dean moved on. “Once Lydia fell asleep, I looked around the house. I found some arsenic underneath her sink.”

Recalling the contents of the pocket watch’s note, Castiel experienced a chill. He’d share the information with Dean after he’d described what he’d found at the Emersons’ house. “Irrelevant. Devereaux was killed with a bullet to the temple, not arsenic. Besides, they could be using it to kill rats.”

“I suppose. But there’s one more thing that’s pretty telling.”

“Oh?”

“I snuck into Ruby’s room. Luckily for me, she stayed out all night.”

“Where was she?”

“Lydia didn’t know when I asked. Said Ruby had a habit of going home almost every night with a new man she’d met in a bar or club.”

“Ruby always goes to the man’s house?”

“I guess.”

“I wonder. How did you and Lydia wind up going to her house rather than yours?”

“Easy. I live with my little brother. Sam, remember?” Castiel nodded. “He’s barely nineteen, and I told Lydia I didn’t feel comfortable taking her to my apartment.”

“Ah.” Did Dean take care of his younger brother, too? Something about the idea made Castiel smile.

“Point is, I found Ruby’s diary. And get this—about a month before Devereaux died, she wrote a rant about how he was planning to cut them off. She complained about being left without money and having to get a job.”

“A job! The horror!”

Dean giggled for a moment but then forced himself to adopt a neutral expression. Still, a small grin adorned his face. “It sounds silly, but I understand. I mean, those girls don’t really have any marketable skills, you know?”

“That’s a kind way of looking at it.” Castiel chewed his lip as he thought. “So, they definitely had motive.”

“Yes.”

“I also have some news to report.” Castiel placed the pocket watch in front of him on the desk. He spun it idly as he explained, “This pocket watch has a secret compartment in the back. Inside, I found a note—” Castiel held up the small square of paper. “—and the world’s tiniest key.” Castiel pointed at the pin-sized key lying next to the pocket watch.

“That _is_ a tiny key,” Dean marveled.

“I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s significant. Especially considering that the note is a cry for help.”

“What does it say?”

Castiel read, “Someone is trying to kill me, but I don’t know who. I suspect my nieces. I’ve told them they can no longer avail themselves of my income. I’m tired of them using me for my money. Eleanor thinks I’m paranoid, but there have been some close calls that must be more than accidents. A rock fell from my roof, missing my head by inches.  I dodged a car that almost hit me. I’ve started preparing my own food and drink, for I found arsenic in a cup of milk. I’m leaving little notes like this in random places. Hopefully someone who’s not part of the murder plot will find one. If I leave the notes somewhere obvious, the responsible party will find it, so I’m sending this note to Balthazar’s shop.”

“He wrote all that on such a little slip of paper?” Dean said, pointing at the note in Castiel’s hand.

“It’s the devil to read.” Castiel had perused the missive several times, and it was still difficult to make out some of the words.

“How did he detect arsenic in his milk?”

“I assume he used the Marsh Test.” Dean gave him a blank look. “Chemistry. It requires a lab.”

“So the guy just happens to have a lab at his house?”

“I believe so. Did you not look at the architectural plans?” Castiel had visited the city archives to dig them up yesterday.

“Didn’t think it was important. Just thought it was a big house.”

“I wonder what this key is for,” Castiel pondered.

“I still don’t understand why Devereaux put that stuff in the pocket watch. Was he hoping Balthazar would find them? Did Balthazar find them? Did he trust Balthazar then get betrayed by him?”

“I doubt Balthazar knows about these items. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have left them in the pocket watch.”

“So did Deveraux fail to reach Balthazar? Or was he hoping some random customer would find that stuff?”

“I don’t know. As we’ve been told, the man was eccentric. We might not always be able to understand his thinking process.”

“So what’re we supposed to do with this information?”

“Damned if I know. But we’re left with three suspects. Crowley was apparently at his club the night of the murder, so we’ve got Balthazar, Lydia Emerson, and Ruby Emerson. Perhaps we should trail them and see if they do something suspicious.”

“There are three of them and only two of us.”

“You’re right.” They could take turns following each of the three, but it would hardly be foolproof. They needed to ascertain whether Balthazar was actually worth pursuing. “We need to get into Balthazar’s house.”

“What? Why?”

“For the same reason you scoured the Emersons’ house. To see if we find something suspicious.”

“And how’re we supposed to get in, huh? You expect him to just let us come in and snoop around?”

“Of course not. We let ourselves in.”

Dean frowned. “I don’t understand.” Castiel gives Dean a minute to put the pieces together. “Wait, you want us to _break into his house_?”

God, Dean was being dramatic. “When you put it like that—”

“That shit’s illegal, Cas!”

“We’re not the police. It’s a private investigation, and we can . . . bend the rules.”

“What are you talking about?! _I am_ the police, Cas!”

But this was not an official investigation. Even if Zachariah had given Dean two weeks to work on it, it was strictly off the books. Yesterday, Castiel had called the police station in order to confirm his suspicion that it was so. He’d inquired about the Devereaux case, claiming to have a tip. After Castiel had waited forever for an update, the receptionist had eventually informed him no such investigation existed.

“But I’m not the police,” Castiel countered. “So I shall do as I please. Since you won’t come along, I’ll investigate Balthazar’s house on my own.”

“You can’t do that.”

Castiel arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“You’ve just informed me you intend to break the law. I should arrest you.”

Castiel stared at Dean. The man sounded serious, but something in his eyes, just the faintest glimmer, told Castiel it was an idle threat.

“Don’t you blink?” Dean remarked.

Castiel’s mouth twitched into a smile; he couldn’t help it. When Dean’s expression grew more puzzled, Castiel released an involuntary laugh. Dean gawked at him, a hint of anxiety creeping into those green eyes. But his body, though tense, leaned toward Castiel as if toward the sun. It was strange. He kept his wide-open eyes focused on Castiel’s, as if hypnotized. They were trapped in a strange fugue. Castiel had no desire to break it, but at some point, it had to be done. “But you won’t,” Castiel concluded.

Dean startled. “Won’t what?”

“Arrest me.”

“I won’t?”

“No.” Castiel stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I have a house to break into.” Castiel grabbed a flask he kept stashed in the bottom desk drawer and strode toward the door.

“Wait!” Dean shouted. “I’m coming.”

Castiel glanced at Dean over his shoulder. “You will break the law with me?”

Dean echoed Castiel’s words from earlier. “Let’s not put it like that.”

Once again, Dean insisted they take his car. After they settled inside, though, Dean gave Castiel a blank look. “I don’t know where we’re going.”

As Castiel tucked his flask into a pocket inside his overcoat, he rolled his eyes. “Luckily, I am prepared.” He’d made a list of the suspects’ addresses. As Dean drove, Castiel gave him directions to their destination. When they reached the street where Balthazar’s house was located, Dean argued they should park a block away to avert suspicion. Castiel pointed out they would probably stand out more if they walked up to the house seemingly from nowhere.

“If we park right in front of the house, it looks like we belong,” Castiel contended.

“Ugh, fine, we’ll do it your way since this was your idea,” Dean grumbled. “But if we get caught, I’m pinning it all on you.”

“How would you explain your presence?”

“You took me hostage or something.”

Castiel snorted. “Yes, and I’m so inept that I let my hostage freely walk around. Either that, or you’re such a boob that it doesn’t even occur to you that you can escape.”

“Why must you burst a guy’s bubble?”

Castiel stopped beside the door to the small brick house and blinked at Dean. “It was a joke.”

“Not a funny one.”

“I beg to differ,” Castiel said as he drew out a knife from his pocket and commenced picking the lock.

Dean glanced uneasily up and down the street. “What do we do if someone notices?”

“For one, you can stand behind me right now to block me from view. That way, no one would notice.” Dean scooted in closer. “Besides,” Castiel continued, “people aren’t very observant. They’re oblivious to things that do not directly involve them.” Castiel heard the lock pop open and stowed the knife back underneath his coat.

Once they were inside and the door was shut, Dean asked, “Should we split up?”

“That would seem to be the most efficient method of investigation.”

“All right.”

Dean turned toward the bedrooms, so Castiel went in the opposite direction, toward the kitchen. Balthazar’s pantry and refrigerator were surprisingly sparse. The man must eat out regularly. Castiel checked under the sink and, sure enough, he spotted a bottle of arsenic. He sighed when he made the discovery.

So Balthazar couldn’t be ruled out. That was just dandy.

But did Balthazar have motive? Of course he did; money was a sufficient motive for almost anyone. But how desperate for money was he, compared with the Emerson sisters? What he needed were bank statements. Records for the Treasure Trove would be useful as well, but no doubt Balthazar kept those in the shop.

Castiel stepped into the study and aimed straight toward the wooden desk, which contained two drawers on its right side. He slid open the first drawer and mostly found junk: flyers, take-out menus, reminders, random notes, and a blank calendar.

However, to his surprise, he hit the jackpot with the bottom drawer. Not only did it contain a cache of bank statements, but it also housed the antique shop’s ledger.

Castiel flipped through the pages and gasped. The Treasure Trove had been hemorrhaging money for the past four months. He found a note from last month listing donations Devereaux had given to help him recoup his money; one of those items had been the pocket watch. That would explain why he’d claimed Devereaux was generous. If Deveraux was giving him assistance, then why would he kill the man? No doubt gaining a large inheritance trumped being a charity case, he reflected.

The bank statements showed Balthazar was barely staying afloat, another sign he desperately needed money.

Castiel carefully placed the documents back where he’d found them and went in search of Dean.

“Look what I found, Cas!” Dean exclaimed when Castiel paused in the doorway of the master bedroom. He downed a draught of whiskey while Dean shoved an object in his face. “It’s a picture with Balthazar, Crowley, and Devereaux.”

Castiel took another sip before putting the flask away. “So what?”

“Balthazar said he didn’t know his cousin well.”

“So did Crowley,” Castiel muttered. “It doesn’t mean much, though. The picture could’ve been taken during a rare moment when they’d gathered together.”

“But why would he keep it on the nightstand next to his bed?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “But I found something even more pertinent.”

“Oh, yeah?”                                         

As Castiel detailed what he’d learned from the ledger and bank statements, Dean’s mouth fell open.

“That’s certainly something,” Dean agreed. “Dammit! I was hoping we could eliminate him as a suspect.”

“So was I.”

After they scoured the rest of the house and found nothing useful, they returned to Dean’s car. Once they were seated, rather than starting the vehicle, Dean turned to Castiel.

“I didn’t do it for fun, Cas,” he stated.

“What?” What could Dean be referring to?

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and barked out an uncomfortable laugh. “Guess I didn’t phrase that clearly, huh? I mean spending the night with Lydia Emerson. I just wanted to get a look around without, um, breaking and entering. We didn’t do more than kiss, Cas, I swear.” Dean’s words began to come out in a rush, so quickly that Castiel strained to understand them. “I didn’t even like kissing her. I didn’t want to. I just went along with what she was doing.” He was almost hyperventilating now, and he stopped to catch his breath.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, attempting to understand what Dean was trying to communicate. Hadn’t they already discussed this topic? “Why are you telling me this?”

Dean gnawed on his lip for a minute before responding. “I don’t know. I just . . . I don’t want you to think I’m that kind of guy.”

Curious. Castiel tilted his head, considering the sentiment Dean had expressed. “You care about my opinion?” he marveled.

“Of course.” The words stunned Castiel.

_Of course? “Of course” . . . I think I fell for Dean then, just a little. This was different than the brief frisson of lust earlier, a deeper feeling. No one, excepting Meg, perhaps, had cared about my opinion in a long time._

“Don’t worry about it, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “I understand.”

Dean sighed with relief. “Okay. Yeah. That’s—that’s good.”

When they reached Castiel’s place, they heard a boy hollering, “Read all about it in the evening edition! Archaeology professor dies in fire!”

Castiel and Dean both jerked toward the sound. Dean approached the boy, purchased the paper, and followed Castiel inside. They spread out the front page on Castiel’s desk and scanned the article together.

Dr. Eleanor Visyak had died this morning in a house fire. A tragic accident, the paper called it.

Castiel snorted. “That’s no accident.”

“No shit,” Dean replied.

“Maybe we can wait until the suspect weeds the others out. Whoever is left standing is the killer.” Dean looked askance at him. “What?”

“How can you be so callous?!” Dean fumed.

“It was a joke.”

“An inappropriate one.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Sometimes, he used morbid humor to help himself cope, but he knew he should keep such thoughts to himself. Others found it disrespectful. But without the humor, he would focus on the horror of the fire, of burning alive, of how much agony Dr. Visyak must’ve suffered.—

Castiel took a couple steps back, but he kept staring at the paper. “We need to solve this case fast. Before someone else gets killed.”


	6. 5. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter briefly references the existence of period-typical homophobia. Also, it comes with a trigger warning for emetophobia.

Knowing Dean would arrive at promptly eight in the morning, Castiel made sure he was awake by then. It promised to be a dreary day, cloudy and stormy, but he was alert regardless. He was on his second cup of (whiskey-spiked) coffee when Dean burst in, the rain briefly blowing through the door behind him before he slammed the door. He scurried toward his usual chair and collapsed. Castiel puffed on his cigarette and waited for Dean to explain what the excitement was about.

“Pass me one of those,” Dean demanded.

“One of what?” Castiel responded.

“A cigarette, dammit!”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“’Cause I want one, goddammit!”

“But you haven’t wanted one before.”

“Jesus, what’s with the third degree! Just do a man a favor, will you, Cas?”

Castiel slid a cigarette across to Dean. “I didn’t even know you smoked.”

“Not that often, no. But sometimes a man needs one when he’s stressed.”

Castiel flicked open his lighter and pressed it to the tip of Dean’s cigarette. “And why are you so stressed, Dean?”

Dean sighed with pleasure as he released a long exhale. “Sammy, Bobby, and I went out to eat last night.”

“Bobby Singer? Devereaux’s attorney?”

“Yes. He’s a family friend.”

“Ah.”

“So we were eating at the Burger Palace, right? I’m sitting facing the window, like I always do, when I see Detective Ishim pass by with a prostitute.”

A chill coursed through Castiel. “How did you know she was a prostitute?”

“Because I arrested her once.”

“I see.”

“I told my boss this morning. Zachariah. Do you know what he said? It was just ‘one of the perks of the job,’” Dean spat. “That I should feel free to avail myself of their services as well. A quid pro quo.—A favor in return for allowing them to avoid arrest.” The disgust in Dean’s voice was almost palpable. “Then he winked at me, like, and said he could tell me about the other advantages I was missing out on.” He shuddered. “He smiled at me. The slimiest smile I’ve ever seen. And he said, ‘How do you think I afford my Rolls Royce?’ I thought he’d just saved up a lot of money or something, but he was implying something else, something illegal and corrupt and _wrong_ . . . ” He inhaled deeply from his cigarette.

Castiel abruptly stood up.

“Cas? Where are you going?” Dean called.

Castiel ignored him as he shuffled toward the kitchen, where he retrieved a glass. When he returned to the office, he plopped it on the desk and poured a generous helping of whiskey. “You might want this,” Castiel uttered. As he handed it to Dean, their fingertips brushed.

Dean took a sip. “Thanks, Cas,” he mumbled before frowning. “You don’t seem surprised.” He focused his gaze on Castiel, as if attempting to solve a puzzle. Castiel soothed his own anxiety by concentrating on the act of smoking. “Wait a minute!” he cried after a few minutes. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Castiel sighed. “Dean—”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Is that why you quit the police? When I told Zachariah I was working with you, he said you were insane, that they’d fired you, but that’s not what happened, is it?”

Castiel chortled. “Insane, am I?”

“Don’t you take anything seriously?”

Castiel sobered. “Yes. I knew.” He closed his eyes, reliving the panic he’d felt when he’d learned the truth. “I couldn’t stand for it, so I quit.” He forced himself to open his eyes and meet Dean’s indignant ones.

“You couldn’t stand for it, so you quit?!”

“Yes,” Castiel said, pronouncing the word definitively.

“That’s it?! You didn’t think, oh, maybe I should stop those sons of bitches?”

“What was I going to do?” Castiel pointed out, weary. “It goes all the way to the top.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“It’s a valid one,” Castiel countered.

Dean reached for the ashtray and put out his cigarette before crossing his arms over his chest. “You really think that?”

“I know that.”

Dean hopped to his feet. “No. It’s a paltry one.” He glared at Castiel. “When you know people are committing a crime, you don’t just ignore it, no matter how powerful the people are!”

“What would you have me do?”

“Fight it!”

“How?”

“I don’t know! But you figure something out!” He donned the most disdainful expression Castiel had ever seen. “In our line of work, you’re sworn to uphold the law.”

“Not if you’re in private practice,” Castiel quipped.

“Private practice or not, we fight crime. That’s what we _do_ , Cas! If you don’t try to stop it, you’re no better than the damn criminals.”

A tense silence commenced. Castiel tried to think of how he could justify himself to Dean, but to no avail.

Eventually, Dean spat, “You’re a coward.” Castiel flinched at the venom in his voice, sure he would never forget it.

“I can’t work with you right now.”

Tears started to Castiel’s eyes. “We still have a case to solve.”

“I’ll figure it out myself.” Dean turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The rain beat harder on the roof.

Castiel sank into his chair. “Goddammit!” he hissed, pounding his fist on the desk. His hand smarted from the blow, and he wiped it on his thigh, attempting to alleviate the burn.

He hated to lose Dean and his case. Not because of the case itself (which, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t mean much to him even if he was eager to solve it), but because he’d liked Dean. He often found others’ company irksome, but his esteem of Dean had only grown the longer they’d known each other. The way his eyes would light up at simple pleasures, his implicit trust in law and order, his banter, his aching sincerity . . . the innocence he’d now lost. How he’d rightly shoved Castiel away when he’d learned how tainted Castiel himself was, how Castiel had known about the warped nature of law and order in this town and done nothing to stop it, just let it go on, without putting up even a token resistance after expressing his initial outrage.

Now he would probably never see Dean again. It hurt, but he knew Dean would be better off without him.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Dean entered Castiel’s office and paused right in front of the door. Castiel was mesmerized by him, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to Dean. Those green eyes that faintly sparkled with fondness, that beautiful smile._

_Castiel crept toward him, unable to resist his magnetic pull._

_“Cas? What’re you doing?” Dean asked._

_Castiel stopped mere inches from Dean. He could feel the other man’s breath on his cheeks, on his lips. “Stop talking,” Castiel ordered, touching a finger to Dean’s lips. Dean’s eyes followed that finger. He opened his mouth and sucked in the tip. Castiel closed his eyes and sighed._

_But Castiel wanted more. He wanted—_ needed— _a taste of his own. He yanked his finger out of Dean’s mouth, grasped his shoulders, and shoved him against the nearby wall. Dean’s eyes widened, and Castiel grinned. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Dean’s, just the barest of touches._

_When Castiel’s lips met his, Dean’s skin suddenly turned black, brittle. Castiel’s hand slid up Dean’s shoulder until it hit his neck. The skin felt crackly, like burnt paper._

_Dean’s body melted into ash, and the pieces dispersed, flying outside when the wind shoved the door open._

Castiel jerked awake. His body, caked in sweat, trembled.

He couldn’t deny the truth, not after that nightmare. He felt an intense attraction toward Dean, something he’d never felt for anyone before. But it was wrong. Not because society frowned on homosexuality; Castiel couldn’t give two figs what anyone else thought. But Castiel’s very touch, it corrupted.

 _I’m not a good person_ , he thought to himself _. Knowing everything I do about the depths of the police department’s corrupt activities, the illicit criminal empire ruling this town, and I do nothing. I don’t act because I’m afraid of losing my life. I’m a coward, and it’s shameful._

Even if Dean wasn’t disgusted by the idea of a same-sex relationship, Castiel could never act on his attraction. Dean thought of him as a coward, and rightly so. He understood how worthless Castiel was.

And if that weren’t true, Castiel would do nothing but ruin Dean, anyway, for he was rotten to the core.

With one hand, he reached under the bed and dragged out the vodka bottle he’d stashed there. Weak balm for his sorrows, but it’d do.

xxxxxxxxxxx

When Dean let himself in the next morning, Castiel was lying on the floor of his office while sipping from his whiskey bottle. Turned out the vodka bottle had been almost empty, so he’d journeyed downstairs for a fresh source of alcohol.

Dean rounded Castiel’s desk, discovered Castiel on the other side, and frowned at the sight. Castiel was still in his pajamas. “What’re you doing down there, Cas?”

Castiel maneuvered himself into a sitting position and proffered the bottle to Dean. “Would you like some?”

“No. It’s eight in the morning, Cas. How long have you been drinking?”

Castiel lumbered to his feet and asserted, “I’m fine. Let’s get to work.” His stomach heaved; it felt like liquid was sloshing around inside.

“Cas, I think you’re gonna—” Dean began. He snatched up the small trash can by Castiel’s desk and held it up to Castiel’s mouth.  

Castiel emptied his guts into the can. Eventually, he devolved into heaving coughs as his stomach expelled the last of its contents.

“Jesus,” Dean mumbled, patting Castiel’s back.

When Castiel was finished, Dean threw an arm around his shoulders and said, “All right, buddy. Your bedroom’s upstairs, right?”

“’M fine,” Castiel insisted.

“Sure you are,” Dean muttered sarcastically.

Dean dragged Castiel toward the stairs, and they lurched up them together. He led Castiel to his bed, helped him lie down, and covered him with the blanket.

“Sleep it off, Cas,” Dean directed.

xxxxxxxxxx

Next thing Castiel knew, he woke up to daylight brightly illuminating the room. Dean was perched on a wooden folding chair near the foot of his bed.

“You’re still here,” Castiel murmured.

“It wasn’t safe to leave you alone. You could’ve choked on your own vomit or something.”

Castiel swept a hand over his mouth but found no residue. “Did I vomit again?”

“No, but you could’ve.” Dean bounded to his feet and stalked toward Castiel, expression disapproving. “You’re an alcoholic, Cas.”

“No, I’m not,” Castiel scoffed. “I just like to have a drink once in a while.” Even he knew it was a lie, unless “once in a while” meant “several times a day.”

Dean ignored the statement, laying a hand on Castiel’s forehead. “But you’re also burning up.” Well. That would explain why he was shivering. “You should get some rest.”

Rest? No. “There’s no time for that,” Castiel objected, focusing his attention on Dean. Everything around him looked blurry.

“You need it.”

“But you have only two weeks. We can’t waste the day on this shit.”

Dean massaged Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s not a waste. We need you at 100%.” He glanced at the empty vodka bottle on the floor. “Or as close to it as possible.” He retracted his hand, and to his shame, Castiel missed the touch. “How about I make you some tomato rice soup?” He flushed. “My mom used to make it for me when I was sick.”

“That sounds lovely,” Castiel replied, warmed by how earnestly Dean had made his suggestion.

Dean retreated downstairs. When he returned thirty minutes later, Castiel had drifted into a waking doze. He opened his eyes to Dean standing inches away with a bowl of soup in one hand. He reached for the bowl, but Dean swatted his hand away.

“Sit up,” Dean demanded.

Castiel obeyed, but he felt shaky. It made the task difficult. After a minute, Dean wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and helped him prop himself up.

“There you go,” Dean murmured. He stroked Castiel’s hair. “God, you’re sweating something fierce.”

Once Dean removed his hand, Castiel swiped his fingers through his hair. Dean was right. No wonder he felt so miserable.

Dean dipped a spoon in the soup and held it out toward Castiel, who glowered. “Take a bite, Cas,” Dean urged.

“I can feed myself,” Castiel complained.

“Be my guest.” He handed Castiel the bowl, but since Castiel’s hands quaked so much, drops of liquid splashed onto the sheets. Dean grinned as Castiel gave the bowl back to him.

“Thought so. Now eat.” Castiel dutifully swallowed every spoonful Dean doled out to him. Gradually, his limbs felt as if they were regaining some of their strength.

“It’s good,” Castiel said when the soup was finished.

“Mmmhmm.” Dean set the bowl on the bedside table and resumed his seat at the foot of the bed.

Something nagged at him. After a few moments, he realized what it was. When Dean had left yesterday, he’d said he’d solve the case by himself. It’d been clear that he’d never be back. So— “What’re you doing here, Dean?”

“Nice thank you, Cas.”

“Thank you, Dean. Please don’t get me wrong; I am grateful.” Castiel winced at how raspy his voice sounded—even more so than usual. “I just didn’t think you were coming back.”

“Huh?”

“Yesterday, you said—”

“Oh. That.” Dean waved a dismissive hand. “I understand why you didn’t do anything about the damn police.” His expression grew stony. “I’m not saying I agree with it, but I understand.” His tone changed to something lighter. “Besides, we’ve got a case to solve, right?”

“You said you would do it yourself.”

“I was upset. But I think we make a good team, don’t we?”

“We do?” Dean’s face fell, so Castiel quickly added, “Yes, I think we do.”

“It’s a good thing I came back, too. You were a goddamn mess. Who knows what would’ve happened?”

Castiel was suddenly hit by a wave of tiredness. “Mmmhmm.” It dragged him down to sleep.

“Go to sleep, Cas. I’ll watch over you.”


	7. 6. The Tedious Minutiae of Investigation

When Castiel woke up alone the next morning, he assumed Dean had gone home at some point. But when he stumbled downstairs, he found Dean at the desk, mulling over some documents and sipping a cup of coffee. He was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

“Good morning, Cas,” he called.

“You’re still here,” Castiel marveled.

“Said I’d watch over you, didn’t I? How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Thank you for everything, Dean.”

“You’re welcome.” He gestured toward a mug in front of Castiel’s chair. “Would you like some coffee?”

Castiel walked to the desk and picked up the full cup. “Thank you.”

After Castiel gulped down the coffee, he went back upstairs to get dressed. When Castiel returned to the office, Dean had compiled all of the papers into one giant stack.

Dean sighed. “I don’t think any of this is much help.” As Castiel settled into his chair, Dean continued, “What do you think we should do next?”

“It’s time we start tailing suspects,” Castiel concluded.

“But how do we choose who to follow?”

The door swung open, startling them both.

“Clarence!” Meg shouted as she strode inside. When she spotted Dean, she mumbled, “Oh, hey, Dean.”

“Hey, Meg,” Dean replied, echoing Meg’s begrudging tone. His eyes flitted between Meg and Castiel. “Why’d she call you Clarence?”

“It’s a play on words,” Meg answered before Castiel could open his mouth.

“Huh?”

“Clarence, Castiel?”

After a minute, Dean said, “I don’t get it.”

“He’s named after an angel. Clarence is an angel.”

“It’s from  _ It’s a Wonderful Life, _ ” Castiel inserted.

“Oh, I see! That’s clever.” Dean turned to Castiel and asked, “What kind of name is Castiel anyway?”

“It’s the angel of Thursday,” Castiel explained.

“Uh huh. And where’d you get a name like that?”

“His parents, you idiot,” Meg sniped.

“They were very religious,” Castiel elaborated. “I’d rather not talk about them.” He’d fled their abode as soon as he’d saved up enough money to move out. He remembered feeling like he couldn’t wait to be away from their cold presence; it’d always felt like they thought of him as a trophy to show off to their friends, their good little Christian boy to go with their good little Christian life.

What would they think if they saw him now? Contemplating the question gave him the urge to laugh, but he held in the amusement. He didn’t want to spook Dean or Meg.

“Anyhow, Clarence,” Meg began. “I have a proposal for you.”

“What is it?” Castiel asked.

“How would you like to get into the Devereaux house?”

“We’d like that very much.”

“Not both of you. Just you, Clarence.”

Dean objected, “Wait a minute—”

“I can’t bring both of you.”

“Bring both of us where?” Castiel wondered.

“The Emerson sisters are moving into Devereaux’s house, and this Saturday, they’re having a party to mark the event. I’m invited—”

“They invited  _ you _ ?!” Dean interjected.

“—since we run in the same circles. It’s a formality. Social etiquette and all that. I wasn’t going to go, but I thought you might like to see the house. If I attend, I am allowed to bring one guest.”

“Isn’t Saturday the day after tomorrow?” Dean questioned.

“You’re observant,” Meg deadpanned.

“Isn’t it too late to RSVP?”

“It’s not the polite thing to do, but it’s still an option.” She eyed Castiel. “So, what do you say, Clarence?”

“It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up,” Castiel decided. “Thank you, Meg.”

“I’m coming, too!” Dean exclaimed.

“Did you miss the part where I said I can bring only  _ one  _ guest?”

“But I wanna go.”

“Whining won’t change things.”

“You’re calling me a whiner?”

“Okay, you two,” Castiel interrupted. “That’s enough bickering. I’m going to the party with Meg. I’ll search the house for anything relevant. You’ll just have to trust I’ll know what I’m doing, Dean.” He inwardly winced at the declaration. Why  _ would  _ Dean believe Castiel would know what he was doing? He thought Castiel was a coward. Not to mention he’d witnessed Castiel’s drinking yesterday morning, which had been excessive even for him. As if to prove to himself the truth of how much of a fuck-up he was, he took a drink from the whiskey bottle sitting on his desk.

“I do,” Dean said softly. Castiel did a double take. Dean sounded serious. But he couldn’t be, could he?

Meg clapped her hands together. “All right. Now that’s settled. I’ll pick you up Saturday, Clarence. I’ll be here at four.”

“Four?” Castiel repeated. Surely that was too early for the party to start.

“Yes. We need to make sure you’re appropriately dressed. I’ll bring the outfit.”

“What’s wrong with one of my suits?” Castiel grumbled.

“No offense, but they’re not nearly up to par for a high society event.”

After they exchanged goodbyes with Meg, Dean and Castiel resumed discussing their next move. “If we split up, we can follow two people instead of one,” Castiel pointed out.

“Yeah, but if we’re together, maybe one of us would catch something the other doesn’t,” Dean countered. “Not to mention, it’d be less tedious.”

“I think covering more ground is worth the risk.”

“But stakeouts are so boring. Who wants to sit there for hours watching people go about their business?”

“No one said this was a glamorous job.”

“Okay, so who’re we going to trail first?”

“What do you think? I’ll keep an eye on Balthazar’s shop.”

“That sounds good. I’ll follow Ruby Emerson. I spoke to her for only a few seconds at The Passion Room, and we have less information about her than we do about the others.”

“All right. Should we meet here at five?”

“Sure.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel parked his car across the street from the Treasure Trove and settled in for a long day. At least it wouldn’t be strenuous, which meant he could rest; he still felt a little queasy. He’d packed a sandwich and an apple for lunch and brought along a book,  _ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter _ , to occupy himself. He sipped from his flask as he turned the pages.

Nothing much of consequence happened until four o’clock, just as Castiel had resigned himself to calling it a wasted day.

Arthur Ketch breezed into the shop. Why would Crowley’s head bartender visit an antique shop? It could just be coincidence. Castiel had a pair of binoculars in his car, didn’t he? He dug around underneath the front seats until he found them.

With the binoculars, Castiel looked through the open glass storefront and focused on Ketch and Balthazar. They were chatting. Amiably, it seemed. Both men were smiling; Balthazar even guffawed at one point. Perhaps Balthazar was merely being polite to a customer, but Castiel didn’t think so. Ketch hadn’t even glanced at any of the merchandise. He abruptly assumed a solemn expression, and so did Balthazar. Then Ketch strolled outside, lips puckered as if whistling.

Castiel lowered his binoculars. All of a sudden, Ketch’s eyes met his. Castiel gasped but otherwise remained frozen. He should drive away, before Ketch suspected he was up to something, but he was paralyzed even as Ketch approached his car and tapped on the window.

Castiel unrolled the window and forced himself to sound nonchalant. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ketch.”

“Mr. Novak, right? You’re the special investigator who came into The Paradise Room a few days ago, are you not?”

“Yes.”

His countenance grew stormy. “You’re not spying on us, are you?”

Castiel laughed nervously. “Why would you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, you’re just sitting in your car here, conveniently across the street from Balthazar’s place of business, with binoculars in your lap.”

“They’re for birdwatching.”

“In the middle of the city?”

“Why not?”

“Cut the crap, Mr. Novak.”

Castiel held up his book. “I’ve been reading. On my work break. Between sites.”

Ketch rolled his eyes. “Listen here, pretty boy. If I catch you watching me again, I will bash your face in. Do I make myself clear?”

“Very.”

“Capital.” Ketch tapped the top of the window frame. “Have a good afternoon, Mr. Novak.”

As Ketch stalked off, Castiel finally switched on the ignition.

Dean still wasn’t back at the office, so Castiel focused on regaining his bearings until Dean arrived.

“Do you have any news?” Dean asked when he shuffled into the office thirty minutes later.

Castiel told him about Ketch visiting Balthazar as well as the confrontation. Dean paled.

“Are they onto us, then?” Dean questioned.

“I don’t know,” Castiel sighed. “I don’t think so. No doubt Ketch thinks I’m fulfilling the investigator role as stipulated in the will.”

“That would make sense.”

“What about Ruby? Did you spot anything noteworthy?”

“She seems to associate with a lot of shady characters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if she’s just friends with them or if she’s up to something, but she spent the day at one of Alastair’s mansions, socializing with some of his top brass.”

“That certainly is noteworthy.”

“Is tomorrow Stakeout Day Number Two?”

“Yes.”


	8. 7. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief imagined graphic sexual image.

On the second day they followed suspects, Castiel tailed Lydia, and Dean continued keeping up with Ruby. Lydia visited one of her high society friends while Ruby engaged in the same activities she had the previous day.

The day after that, he and Dean focused on formulating Castiel’s strategy for the Emersons’ party.

“You have to mingle, Cas,” Dean directed. “You can’t be standoffish. You’ll look suspicious.”

“I know that, Dean,” Castiel huffed.

“I just thought I’d mention it because sometimes you can be a little, um . . . ” Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

“I can be a little what?” Castiel groused.

“Uh. Socially awkward.”

“I can handle myself, Dean.”

After a sufficient amount of time had passed, and once he was sure no one would notice him leaving, Castiel would slip off to explore the rest of the house. He would have to be thorough but quick, returning in time for no one to miss him. Dean insisted Castiel should head to his apartment after the party, bringing anything he’d discovered.

“But what if it’s late when I leave?” Castiel said. “Would you still want me to come?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really not wish to wait until the morning? I might wake your brother up. He lives with you, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, but it won’t be a big deal. Sam sleeps like a rock.”

“We would be more alert in the morning.”

“But time is of the essence. Besides, I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep tonight. I’ll be too busy thinking about you and whatever you find.”

As promised, Meg arrived at four, with a brand new black suit in tow. “Try it on, Clarence,” she urged.

Castiel frowned as he accepted the suit. “How did you know my size?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”

Castiel mulled over the possibilities as he changed into the suit. She must have studied his body closely. He didn’t like the idea of Meg examining him that intimately.

After he buttoned up the dinner jacket, he shuffled toward the office, dreading how Meg and Dean would react.

“Clarence!” Meg exclaimed as soon as he entered the office, her lips curving up in a strange mixture of fond and sardonic delight. “You clean up well. Here, let me smooth your hair down.” She tried to flatten his hair with one hand while Dean glared at her. After a minute, she sighed. “I suppose there’s nothing we can do about that.”

“He looks good with his hair like that,” Dean argued. Meg raised an eyebrow. “What? He does.” He focused on Castiel. “You do.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel replied.

Castiel’s gaze stayed fixed on Dean as Dean’s eyes raked over his figure. Castiel found that, unlike with Meg, he didn’t mind Dean scanning him in such detail. His reaction reinforced how strong his attraction to Dean was. When his green eyes met Castiel’s, Dean reddened.

“Uh. Yeah. You look good, Cas.” He turned to Meg. “You picked a nice outfit.”

“Thank you.”

Since the Emersons planned to serve only drinks and hors d’oeuvres, Castiel and Meg scarfed down some sandwiches next. Only after that did Meg don her dress, which she’d left in her car. It was a stunning, mid-calf red cocktail dress that flared out starting at the waist. It flattered her figure and brought out her deep brown eyes.

Meg spun around. “What do you think?”

“You look pretty. Surprisingly,” Dean ribbed. Meg glowered at him.

“Dean,” Castiel chided. “Be nice.” He offered Meg an encouraging smile. “You look beautiful.”

“You really do,” Dean affirmed, speaking this time in a serious tone.

“Thank you.” Meg took two steps in her black heels and winced. “Ugh. I hate wearing shit like this.” She gestured toward her attire. “Walking is a nightmare in these shoes. You see what I’m doing for you, Clarence?”

“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel said to humor her.

Dean followed them outside, and Castiel locked the office door. Meg’s car was parked next to Dean’s. She whistled at the sight of it.

“I have to say, Dean. Your car is impressive.”

“It’s not all I’ve got that’s impressive,” Dean chuckled, leering. Castiel rolled his eyes.

“Don’t oversell yourself, pal,” Meg retorted.

“Let’s go,” Castiel demanded as he slid into the car. He didn’t want to hear Dean and Meg exchange increasingly suggestive remarks; it was annoying. Besides, it would waste valuable time he could be spending in the Devereaux mansion.

The Devereaux mansion was located on the outskirts of town. Once they arrived, Castiel couldn’t help but gasp at the sheer size of the white edifice. The crowd should be big enough for him to sneak off without being noticed, but if he wasn’t careful, he might be spotted on his way back.

A valet waited in the driveway, which formed a half circle, but Meg opted to park the Cadillac herself. Once she switched off the ignition, they hiked almost a block to the Devereaux house. At the door, a man directed them toward the ballroom, where everyone had gathered. Chatter loudly echoed in the room. Even though the room was bigger than many an average house, so many people were crowded inside that Castiel felt suffocated.

Meg must have noticed his discomfort, for she asked, “Are you all right?” Castiel nodded as he tried to modulate his breathing. “I hate these parties, too. Most people are assholes, and everything is so fake.” Lydia and Ruby Emerson strode toward them. “Watch. They’ll act like we’re good friends even though they loathe me.”

“Fancy seeing you here!” Ruby greeted Meg. “I didn’t think you would come.”

“Didn’t think I would, either,” Meg mumbled to herself.

“What was that?”

“Good evening, Meg,” Lydia said. “We are delighted you could make it.”

“And who is this handsome gentleman you brought with you tonight?” Ruby asked.

“My name is Cas Novak,” Castiel answered, extending his hand. Ruby and Lydia both shook it before either of them spoke again.

“Where did you find this dashing man, Meg?” Lydia questioned.

“That’s the special investigator Devereaux hired!” a British voice cried behind him. All of them swerved around to face Crowley.

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “You are a private investigator, Mr. Novak?”

Castiel nodded, wary.

“How did you come to meet Meg, then? Did you . . .  _ privately investigate  _ her?” Ruby replied, tone laced with innuendo.

“Ruby!” Lydia exclaimed, elbowing her sister.

“We are merely friends,” Castiel responded.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Lydia sighed. She addressed Meg. “I thought you’d finally settled down.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad  _ at all _ ,” Ruby countered. “Would you care to dance with me, Mr. Novak?”

“I don’t dance,” Castiel said, panicking at the mere thought of dancing to the jaunty tunes doled out by the band at the far end of the room. Dancing with Ruby Emerson . . . that idea made him even more nervous.

“Unsurprising,” Crowley uttered, condescending. “I could dance with you, Ruby.”

Ruby wrinkled her nose. “All right, Crowley. Just one dance.” She held out her hand. After Crowley accepted it, they moseyed off.

“Tata for now,” Lydia said, rushing off toward another young woman.

“Why are they dancing?” Castiel wondered. “Aren’t they cousins?”

“Distant cousins.  _ Very  _ distant cousins,” Meg replied. “Besides, it’s just dancing. Not like they’re off to have a fuck.”

“I see.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if they have fucked before, though.” Castiel gaped at her. “What? Ruby is known for her . . . ahem . . . loose morals.”

“That would explain why she spends so much time with some of Alastair’s lackeys.”

Meg snorted. “You had to investigate to find that out? You should have asked me about the Emersons first. You know our families are acquainted each other.”

“I didn’t, actually.” Meg rolled her eyes. “What? You do not socialize often.”

“I suppose that is a fair point.”

“What about Lydia? What do you know about her?”

“She keeps up pretenses, but she’s not as innocent as she seems. She’s a floozy, but she’s more circumspect about it than Ruby.”

“That makes sense. Why else would she take Dean home with her after just meeting him?”

“Lydia fucked Dean?”

Castiel clutched at his hair, caught off guard by the images conjured up by his brain. Dean and Lydia, naked, their limbs intertwined, moaning, Dean thrusting inside her—

But none of that had happened. “No.”

She frowned, as if mulling over something. “So he doesn’t have  _ extremely _ poor judgment. That’s good.”

They strolled around the room, scanning the couches lining the walls and tables displaying fruit and cheese. Eventually, they reached the table reserved for drinks. The bartender was pouring drinks for a couple standing to their left. Once he finished, he turned to face them, and it was none other than—

Arthur Ketch.

“Mr. Novak,” Ketch began, smile clearly forced. “What are you doing here?”

“He’s my guest,” Meg asserted.

“And you’re . . . Meg Masters, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I have heard of you. How do you and Mr. Novak know each other?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. What can I get for you, Ms. Masters?”

Meg and Castiel both ordered martinis. After Ketch handed them their drinks, they claimed an empty couch nearby.

“Do you know Mr. Ketch?” Castiel asked Meg.

“Is that the bartender’s name?” Castiel nodded. “No. I have never met him before.” She sucked on her bottom lip. “How does he know my name?”

“Someone must have told him.”

He and Meg chatted, occasionally pausing to reply to the stray guest who stopped by. He had a hard time discerning when he should slip out of the room. But the decision was made for him when he spotted Ketch and Ruby leaving the room together.

“Why would Ruby sneak off with Ketch?” Castiel wondered.

Meg shrugged. “Who knows why Ruby does anything?”

Castiel followed Ketch and Ruby from a distance, careful to keep his footsteps light. When they reached the end of the hallway, at the other side of the house, they began to converse. Castiel pushed the door of the nearest room open, slinked inside, and closed the door just enough to leave a small crack to peer through.

“I need my cut,” Ketch declared.

“I told you. We have to wait for probate proceedings to finish. I don’t have the dough yet,” Ruby stated.

“I need the money  _ now _ , Ruby. If I knew it would take this long, I wouldn’t have agreed to be Crowley’s alibi.”

“Ask Crowley for it.”

Ketch sighed in exasperation. “He told me to ask you for it!”

“Maybe Lydia still has something put away,” Ruby mused.

“Alastair’s man is demanding his fee for the fire, too. I need to pay him, or Alastair will not be pleased. And we know what happens when Alastair is not pleased.”

Ruby shivered. “Yes. I’ll ask Lydia. She’s in this just as much as we are.”

“Or ask Balthazar.”

“Balthazar is also broke.”

“I visited him at the Treasure Trove two days ago. I saw some  _ very  _ expensive merchandise. We prefer cash, of course, but he might have something that will do in a pinch.”

“I will figure it out,” Ruby promised. She grabbed Ketch’s wrist. “We should return to the party. No doubt some people are impatient to have their glasses refilled.”  

As Ketch and Ruby strode back toward the ballroom, Castiel attempted to process everything he had just heard. It sounded like they had  _ all  _ participated in Devereaux’s murder, to some degree. It wasn’t clear who’d shot him, but it was apparent that all of Devereaux’s heirs, sans Dr. Visyak, had conspired to kill him. For money, it seemed. Ketch had served as Crowley’s alibi, and one of Alastair’s henchmen had been hired to set fire to Dr. Visyak’s house.

He couldn’t wait to tell Dean. But first, he had to find out what the key was for.

He decided to scour the third floor first. There, he found a large storage room and the laboratory. How could he go through these rooms fast, let alone the entire house?

He headed into the lab, where he raked through all the cabinets and drawers and encountered nothing but beakers and other scientific equipment. He glanced at his watch; fourteen minutes had already passed. He needed to hurry.

As he darted toward the doorway, he noticed a small square of the concrete floor was an ever so slightly lighter shade of gray than the rest of it. He snatched up a long rod resembling a crowbar and tried to dislodge the square at what appeared to be the edge. Nothing. He tapped the rod on the edge to see if he could locate a latch. Again, nothing occurred. Perhaps he was seeing things; perhaps nothing was really here.

He fell to his hands and knees and brushed his fingertips over the edge. He felt a line, and he dug at it with his fingernails. He heard something dislodge, and he pressed the rod to where he thought there would be a latch. It popped open, revealing a keyhole-sized space. Was he supposed to insert the key into the floor? How strange. Then again, Devereaux had been strange.

He stuck the key into the space, and the square came out of the floor. In the area underneath, he discovered two items: a piece of paper and a canister with a movie reel inside.

He scanned the sheet; it was a will disinheriting everyone but Dr. Visyak. That was certainly significant. What could be recorded on the film reel? Wasn’t there a screening room at the Masters house? Would Meg let him and Dean view it there?

Castiel tucked the items underneath his dinner jacket. It created an awkward bulge over his stomach, but it couldn’t be helped. He would just have to position his arm in front of the spot until he and Meg could leave the party.

He navigated his way back to the ballroom, where he scanned the crowd for Meg. He spotted her in the corner, talking with an older man he didn’t know. He glided toward her, probably a little too quickly, because once he reached her, he was almost out of breath. Meg and the man turned toward him.

“We need to leave,” Castiel panted.

“Do you know this young man?” the stranger asked Meg.

“Yes, I told you about him,” Meg answered. “He’s my guest. Cas Novak.”

The man offered his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Novak. I am Jim Murphy.”

“Nice to meet you,” Castiel echoed while shaking Murphy’s hand.

“Excuse me,” Meg said to Murphy. “But Cas and I really must be going.”

“All right. Good-bye, Meg, Mr. Novak.”

Meg and Castiel tendered their goodbyes to Murphy before heading for the hallway. “Who is that?” Castiel asked Meg.

“Jim Murphy.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I know that. But how do you know him?”

“He’s the pastor at my father’s church. And Devereaux’s.”

“Your father goes to church?”

“He has to keep up appearances.”

“Ah.”

“Leaving so soon?!” Ruby exclaimed when they encountered her beside the doorway to the hall. Her face contorted in disappointment as she studied them.

“You do know how late it is,” Meg commented. She waved at the crowd in the ballroom, which had thinned by half since she and Castiel had arrived, and yawned. At first, Castiel thought it was a masterful acting job; then he noticed how red her eyes were. She really was tired. Would it be appropriate to ask her if he and Dean could visit her later tonight? They could watch the reel tomorrow instead.

“No, I didn’t realize. I hate to see you go.”

“I need sleep.”

“Okay. Perhaps I will see you around?”

“Sure,” Meg replied, voice remarkably unenthusiastic.

“Great! So long, Meg, Cas.”

“So long,” Meg and Castiel chimed together.

“Ugh, I thought we’d never get rid of her,” Meg muttered as soon as they were out of Ruby’s earshot.

They traipsed down the street in silence. Once they had crawled into her Cadillac, Meg inquired, “Did you find anything?”

“Yes.” Castiel drew out the will and reel from underneath his dinner jacket and dropped them in his lap. “The latest version of Devereaux’s will. He disinherited everyone but Dr. Visyak.”

“What’s on the film?”

“I don’t know. It’s not labeled. Would you mind if Dean and I watched it at your house?”

“Of course not,” Meg said as she pulled away from the curb.

“We’ll wait until the morning.”

“Come whenever you want.”

“It’ll be a while. I need to discuss some stuff with Dean first.” He wondered whether he should tell Meg that he now knew who’d murdered Devereaux. No, not yet, he decided. Dean deserved to know first. It was his case, after all. Still, Castiel itched with the explosiveness of the discovery, and restraining the urge to reveal it out took a great deal of willpower.


	9. 8. Unraveling the Truth

When Meg reached Dean’s apartment complex, she told Castiel, “Before you come over, give me a call so I know to expect you.”

“All right, Meg. Thank you,” Castiel said.

“You’re welcome.”

As soon as Castiel knocked on Dean’s door, it swung open, revealing a disheveled Dean. His eyes, ringed with red, met Castiel’s, and his initial smile turned into a yawn.

“Hey, Cas.” He nodded at the items in Castiel’s hands. “What’ve you got?”

“They all did it,” Castiel blurted, unable to hold in the secret any longer as he barged in past Dean.

“Huh?” Dean mumbled, scratching at his temple.

“They all killed Devereaux,” Castiel explained as he plopped onto the worn-out brown couch.

“What are you talking about?” Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Dean held up a hand. “Wait. I’ve gotta take a leak. Then you can tell me all about it.”

Once Castiel was alone, a tall, gangly, brown-haired young man bounded into the living room. “Are you Cas?” he ventured.

“Yes,” Castiel answered. He grinned. “You must be Sam.”

“Yeah. Dean said you were coming over to work on the case tonight. ” He reached out to shake Castiel’s hand. “I just wanted to meet you,” he stated after the handshake. “Dean talks about you all the time.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Uh huh. I think he feels like you’re his new best friend or something.”

“He does?”

“Mmmhmm.”

That was surprising. After all, didn’t he view Castiel as a coward for not doing more to fight police corruption? Not to mention all the pitiful behavior he’d witnessed — drinking more than was appropriate, that whole mess two days ago when he’d had to spoon-feed Castiel, literally. The picture he’d gotten of Castiel couldn’t be flattering.

But Castiel did like Dean very much. The thought that Dean might like him, too, warmed him.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and a second later, Dean appeared. “Sammy, what’re you doing up?”

“I wanted to meet Cas.”

“All right. You met him. Now, scram. We have business to discuss.”

“Fine,” Sam sighed. “Good night.”

“It was nice to meet you, Sam,” Castiel said.

“It was nice to meet you, too,” Sam called over his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” Dean said once Sam had left the room.

“No need to apologize,” Castiel replied. “I enjoyed meeting your brother.”

Dean settled on the sofa, next to Castiel, with barely two inches separating their thighs. The closeness was distracting. Castiel was overcome by the desire to place his hand on Dean’s thigh and squeeze. Maybe lean a little closer, engage with those mesmerizing green eyes, press their lips together, discover how the other man felt and tasted—

“Now, what did you mean when you said ‘they all did it’?” Dean demanded, disrupting Castiel’s reverie.

“They all killed Mr. Devereaux.”

“Okay, that doesn’t clarify anything.”

Castiel explained what he’d overheard at the party after he’d followed Ketch and Ruby, Dean’s eyes growing wider all the while.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed.

“Indeed.”

“So we know who’s responsible for murdering both Mr. Devereaux and Dr. Visyak. How can we prove it? The police won’t take them in without proof,” Dean said. He pointedly eyed the items in Castiel’s lap. “What did you find?”

Castiel held up the slip of paper first. “This is Devereaux’s last will and testament. I believe it might’ve been written later than the one in Mr. Singer’s position, but I do not know that for a fact.” He passed the will to Dean. “Is it?”

“It is,” Dean confirmed.

“And this—” Castiel tapped the canister. “—has a film reel inside. It’s not labeled. We need to watch it to see what it’s about.”

“How are we supposed to do that? Rent out a movie theater?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dean. We can visit Meg.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean was eager to view the film’s contents as soon as possible, but Castiel had insisted he needed a nap first. By the time he’d finished updating Dean, his eyes had begun to slip closed. Besides, he knew Dean probably required sleep, too, yet he wouldn’t have taken time to rest if he thought that it was only for his own sake. Castiel had framed the downtime as primarily for his own benefit.

Castiel threw his dinner jacket on the floor and stretched out on the sofa. Before he knew it, someone was nudging his shoulder. “Wake up,” Dean said.

“Mmmm. What time is it?” Castiel slurred.

“Seven.”

Castiel burrowed against the side of the couch and mumbled, “Too early.” The sofa muffled his voice.

“But I’m on a deadline, remember?”

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Get up, Cas.”

“Meg’s probably still asleep.”

“No, she’s not.”

Castiel rolled over to face Dean and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I called her. She said she’s been waiting.”

“I told her we weren’t coming until the morning,” Castiel huffed.

“It is morning.”

“She knows I like to sleep in.”

Dean shrugged. “Guess she figured I didn’t.”

“How did you even know her number?”

“It’s called the phone book, dumbass.”

Castiel scowled at Dean. “Don’t insult me.”

“Come on. I’ll make some breakfast; then you can go home and get changed.”

“Why?”

“Your clothes are wrinkly. Besides, don’t you want to wear something more comfortable?”

“I don’t really care.”

Dean turned out to be a mean cook. He prepared scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes for himself and Castiel, as well as Sam, who would spend the day working at Bobby Singer’s law office. He glanced at the will Castiel had found and confirmed what Dean had already concluded, that it was dated later than the one in Mr. Singer’s possession.

The Masters’ red-brick edifice was impressive but not nearly as large as the Devereaux mansion, as Castiel remarked to Dean when he commented on the house’s size upon their arrival.

When Meg opened the door for them, she took one look at Castiel and scrunched up her nose.“You couldn’t be bothered to change your clothes?”

“I didn’t see much point to it,” Castiel grumbled.

Meg led them on a winding path through the house until they reached a mid-sized room with three black couches and two black recliners arrayed around a screen taking up the entirety of the front wall. The projector was located in the back, behind a glass partition.

“I don’t know how to use that thing,” Dean declared while pointing at the projector.

“Neither do I,” Castiel supplied.

Meg snatched the canister out of Castiel’s hands. “I’ll do it.”

While Meg set up the reel, Castiel and Dean parked themselves on one of the couches. 

“By the way,” Meg called. “Did you get answers about what happened to Devereaux?”

Castiel glanced at Dean, who nodded. “The family did it together. All four of them. Ruby, Lydia, Balthazar, and Crowley,” Castiel answered.

“What?! Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Castiel didn’t want to waste time explaining how he’d discovered the identity of the culprits, so before Meg could reply, he asked, “Can we view the film now?”

“Sure.” Soon, Meg had the film up and running.

It began with Devereaux directing the camera at his own face. “I have reason to believe my nieces are lying to me. They’ve always spent a great deal of money, but now they’ve begun asking for more, and asking almost every other day. They say they are going out with their society friends, but they are not. Last night, they told me they were going to an art function with Sarah Blake. I decided to attend myself in order to allay my suspicions. Ms. Blake was there, but they were not, and when I spoke with Ms. Blake, she said she hadn’t seen them all day.

“Tonight, I will follow them and get to the bottom of this mystery.”

The film abruptly cut to a white-walled room viewed through a window. Castiel recognized it. It was—

“That’s the police station!” Dean exclaimed.

A motley crew of six were seated around the table. Zachariah, Alastair. Brady, Lydia’s hand clutched in his. Ketch, with Ruby leaning on his shoulder.

“I guess they don’t care if Lydia and Ruby sleep around,” Dean muttered. Castiel studied him out of the corner of his eye.  Dean glared at Lydia with indignation. Castiel presumed that Dean resented the fact she had kissed him (perhaps even propositioned him) when she already had a beau.

“Mr. Ketch,” Alastair said. “Have you spoken to Crowley?”

“I have,” Ketch answered.

“What did he have to say?”

Ketch’s lips turned up in a twisted smile. “He proved amenable. He has a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

“Fantastic. We will expand the trade into The Passion Room.”

“The drug trade?” Dean wondered.

“The drug trade, no doubt,” Castiel agreed. “And probably a prostitution ring.”

Alastair pulled out an envelope and passed it to Zachariah. “I have the agreed-upon amount. Distribute it among your operatives as you see fit.” He nodded toward Brady. “Mr. Brady will continue to serve as our liaison. If you need to communicate something to us, summon him. Any news we have will be conveyed through him.”

Mouths agape, Castiel and Dean stared at the screen as it flashed to back.

“Holy shit,” Meg exhaled when she returned to the room, canister in hand. “It’s solid evidence of Alastair and the police colluding. We could bring them down with this.”

“Yes,” Castiel said as he mused upon the matter.

“I can’t believe, after so long, I can get what I’ve always wanted.” She eyed Castiel. “What we’ve always wanted.”

“The police can finally do what they’re supposed to do,” Dean asserted. “Uphold law and order.”

“But who would we give the evidence to?” Meg asked. “The whole county is corrupt. Some FBI agents are even in on the racket, so calling them would be a crapshoot.”

“We’ll have to contact a district office,” Dean concluded. “One not in town.”

“But there’s no guarantee they’ll be on the up and up, either,” Castiel pointed out.

“It’s just a chance we’ll have to take.”

Dean volunteered to get in touch with the FBI since his current law enforcement credentials meant the FBI would more likely listen to him than to either Castiel or Meg. Castiel gave Dean the will and canister for safekeeping, and Dean dropped him off at home so he could sleep for a few more hours.


	10. 9. Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some brief graphic violence.

It was late afternoon when Castiel finally awoke from his slumber. Dean was still at the police station, taking care of paperwork and other routine tasks. After he showered, Castiel decided to walk to a nearby bar. He desired a drink, and he was running low on liquor.

As he hiked the three blocks toward his destination, he smoked a cigarette. For some reason, he was feeling jittery, and the cigarette calmed him. He was on his second one when he arrived at the bar. He chose to finish it outside so he could enjoy the breeze for a few more minutes.

Just as he was stubbing out his cigarette with his toe, a familiar figure approached him. Lydia Emerson. She squinted at him and she asked, “Mr. Novak? Is that you?”

“Hello, Lydia. Good afternoon.”

“Good evening, rather. It’s five o’clock.”

Suddenly, something struck Castiel on the back of the head. “What the fuck?” he whispered. He rubbed at the spot as he whirled around to meet his attacker. Arthur Ketch.

Ketch dropped the slab of wood he was holding. “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Novak.”

He prepared to run, but Lydia grabbed him by the elbow. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she hissed.

Ketch punched him in the jaw so forcefully that Castiel tasted blood. Castiel wrenched his arm out of Lydia’s grasp and ducked Ketch’s next attempted strike. But in the process, he slipped, and his knee hit the ground. Ketch grasped him by the hair, slammed him against the brick wall, and chuckled. Despite the pain radiating from the back of his head, he managed to yank himself out of Ketch’s grip. He tried to dash away, but before he could get far, a third person wrapped their arms around his body from behind.

“This is how you do it, you idiots,” Ruby spat as she shoved a rag over Castiel’s nose and mouth.

_Dammit. It’s chloroform._

xxxxxxxxxx

When Castiel woke up, he found himself in a chair, his arms bound behind him and his feet tied together. He appeared to be in an office somewhere, perhaps in a building owned by one of Azazel Masters’s companies. In front of Castiel, their backs to him, were four individuals: Azazel Masters, Arthur Ketch, Ruby Emerson, and Lydia Emerson.

“They’re not in his office,” Ruby stated. “We checked.”

Azazel looked behind his shoulder, disconcerting yellow eyes meeting Castiel’s, and smirked. “We will just have to ask him, then.” The other three turned to face him.

“He’s awake,” Lydia said.

“You have something we need,” Azazel proclaimed as he strode toward Castiel. He stopped about a yard away. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Castiel replied.

“Don’t play dumb,” Ruby snapped. “We know you have it.”

“Have what?” Castiel wasn’t pretending. He had no idea what they thought he had. Unless they knew about—but they _couldn’t_ —

“The will and the film, you dolt!”

Castiel sneered. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Ruby slapped him. “I saw you leave the party with them.”

Castiel raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You did, did you? That’s strange, since I didn’t.”

“How on earth did you find them?” Lydia complained. “We looked _forever_. But you come to our house for just one night, and you discover them.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea. I know nothing of any will or a film.”

“You’ll tell us,” Azazel snarled, “or we’ll kill you.”

“Go ahead.”

Azazel eyed one of his associates. “Ketch.”

Ketch pulled a dagger out from underneath his coat and carved at Castiel’s collarbone, next to his right shoulder. “Ow! Fuck!” Castiel shrieked. When the sharp point of the cold steel penetrated flesh, his skin throbbed, and he felt blood trickle from the incision.

“There’s more where that came from, if you don’t start cooperating like a good little boy,” Azazel threatened, voice low and dangerous. “Now tell us. Where. Are. They?”

“Fuck you!” Castiel growled. He wouldn’t let the criminals cow him. Not this time. Even if it cost him his life.

As Ketch raised the dagger again, Ruby remarked, “Perhaps we should get in touch with his partner in the investigation. Dean Winchester? He might tell us the answer.”

“Do you think we kidnapped the wrong man?” Lydia questioned.

“No. Our sources say Novak is the weaker of the two,” Ketch answered. “The one more likely to give in.” _The bigger coward, you mean. I am. But now, when we finally have something that can bring your enterprise down, I won’t budge._

_Dean won’t be ashamed of me, not this time._

“But I have a better idea,” Ruby continued. “So we don’t have to waste hours torturing this motherfucker.”

“Do tell,” Ketch urged.

The four of them huddled, whispering. Castiel tried to make out what they were saying, but to no avail.

Ruby picked up the phone on a nearby table. She dialed, and after a minute, said, “Hello, is this Dean Winchester?”

_Dean?! No. Shit. What are they going to do to Dean?_

Ruby twisted the cord around her index finger.

“Dean, we have something here you might like to retrieve. A man who goes by the name of Cas Novak . . . ” Ruby laughed. “. . . No, Dean, he is perfectly all right, and he will stay that way as long as you meet our demands . . . Why would you believe us? Here.” Ruby carried the receiver toward Castiel and pressed it against his cheek.

“Cas?” Dean sputtered from the other end of the line.

“Dean,” Castiel replied.

His tone panicked, Dean began, “They really—”

“Whatever they ask, don’t do it,” Castiel beseeched.

“Ketch,” Azazel called.

“Make it a good one,” Ruby added.

Ketch raised his dagger and slashed one clean slice from Castiel’s neck to his belly button. Castiel screamed.

Unimaginable, grueling, stinging, burning agony. The pain consumed his very being.

Blood gushed out, flowing much more rapidly than from the other wound. _My overcoat is getting blood on it. I love this coat_ , Castiel thought. His mind felt like it was going delirious, rapidly growing foggy and enervated. He faintly smelled the metallic odor of blood wafting up from the slash. Somehow, he almost _tasted_ it.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, desperation tinging his voice.

“It’s all right,” Castiel managed, wheezing. “Stick to your guns, Dean.”

Ruby snatched the phone from Castiel and resumed, “There’ll be more where that came from if you don’t follow our instructions . . . Devereaux’s latest will and the film, that’s all we want.” She rattled off an address, and Castiel memorized it in case it should prove useful later. “Be here with them in the next thirty minutes. For every minute you’re late, we’ll do something to Castiel. He’ll die. Slowly. Unless you come.” She slammed the phone onto the receiver.

A tense, wordless thirty minutes followed. Castiel felt his vitality draining away. He glanced down and winced at the sight of how much blood had already leaked out of the laceration along his torso. The pain overwhelmed him now, and the smell had grown stronger.

When Azazel announced it had been thirty-one minutes, Ketch sliced Castiel’s left collarbone with a cut that directly mirrored the one on the right. With how much blood he’d lost already, Castiel barely felt it.

A second later, someone knocked on the door. Azazel threw it open, and Dean stepped inside. Castiel’s heart sank. _No, Dean, no. You’re not me. You’re the strong one. You’re the one with principles._

Dean held out a piece of paper and a canister. “I have them,” he professed. He glanced at Castiel and winced. Azazel reached for them, but Dean clutched them to his chest. “Untie him first.” Azazel nodded at Ketch, who cut the ropes off of Castiel.

“Now. Hand them over,” Azazel demanded.

Dean’s hands shook as he passed the items to Azazel. As soon as he had the objects in his possession, Azazel sauntered outside, and his three minions followed.

“Cas!” Dean exclaimed as he knelt beside Castiel. His eyes watered. “What did they do to you?”

So much blood was splashed across Castiel’s torso. He had to hold it in. He tried to cover the gash with his hands, to trap some of the blood inside, but it wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working? His vision blurred.

“Hang on, Cas,” Dean pleaded. He rushed to the phone and called someone. Castiel couldn’t clearly make out Dean’s words, just how frantic he sounded. “The ambulance is on its way,” he assured Castiel after he finished his conversation.

Dean knelt next to the chair once again and wrapped his arms around Castiel, pulling him down. Dean settled onto the floor, sitting cross-legged, mindless of the blood that’d dripped from Castiel’s body onto the ground. He laid Castiel on the ground gently and cradled his head in his lap. He stroked his hair as he squeezed Castiel’s hand reassuringly then laced their fingers together.

“Dean,” Castiel choked out. He wanted to tell Dean he shouldn’t have surrendered their evidence for him, that it was a poor trade.

“Shh, Cas,” Dean murmured in his ear. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart? Must’ve been my imagination_ , he thought just as everything turned black.


	11. 10. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains some very brief sexual content.

When Castiel regained consciousness, he was lying in a stiff hospital bed, Dean snoozing in a worn out recliner beside him. He glanced underneath his hospital gown and saw that his entire torso had been stitched up, a jagged red scar dominating the landscape of his skin. A cup of water sat on the bedside table, and Castiel took a sip, groaning at the pain caused by moving. He’d never tasted anything so cold and delicious.

Dean bolted upright, his eyes popping open. “Cas! You’re awake.”

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Castiel rasped as he gingerly placed the cup back on the table.

“Huh?”

“Given the evidence up to them.”

“They said they were gonna kill you.”

“Does it matter?”

“Does it matter?!” Dean fumed, jumping to his feet. He stared down at Castiel. “How can you say that?”

“We finally had incontrovertible proof of the police department’s corruption. It would have been a fair sacrifice.”

“A fair sacrifice! Fuck that! Cas, your  _life_ is too precious to be a fair sacrifice for that.”

“It is?”

“Hell, giving that shit up was a bargain if it means the difference between your life and death.”

Castiel thought about his life. On the whole, it seemed quite worthless. He hadn’t done much with it. “I don’t understand.”

“Cas,” Dean’s eyes glistened with tears. He bent over Castiel and pressed their lips together. Then, as if jolted by a spike of electricity, he stumbled backward, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Cas. That was out of line.”

“Dean,” Castiel exhaled, savoring how the syllable tasted on his tongue.

“Please don’t hate me.”

“How could I hate you when I feel the same way?”

“When you . . . What?”

Castiel smiled. “I feel the same way.”

Dean beamed. He crept back to Castiel’s side, and they shared another chaste kiss. After a minute, Dean pulled back. When it seemed like he was about to dive in again, Castiel held up a hand.

“I just don’t understand,” Castiel commented, “why you would feel as I do. I am not worthy of such regard, especially from someone as good as you.”

Dean fluffed Castiel’s hair. “You’re good, Cas.”

“I’m a screw-up.”

“No, you’re not. You said once that I remind you of yourself, remember?”

Castiel scoffed. “That was presumptuous of me.” He didn’t think he’d ever been as good as Dean. Hell, there was just something about Dean that transcended even that simple description, _good_.

“No, I see it now. Underneath all that prickliness. In fact, you’re more than I could ever be.”

Castiel’s face heated up. How could Dean be so deluded? Castiel didn’t feel like arguing the point, though. His wounds still stung, and he just wanted to bask in Dean’s presence.

Dean caressed Castiel’s body, starting with the thighs then running his hands over Castiel’s hips, his sides, until he ended by cupping Castiel’s face in his hands. Dean leaned down, and they met halfway, their lips latching on to each other. Castiel could get drunk on the taste of Dean; the appeal of liquor paled in comparison to his fiery, sweet, smoky, bright flavor. Castiel opened his mouth first, prodding Dean’s lips until they opened in turn, and nudged Dean’s tongue with his own. Dean followed his lead, and their tongues tangled together, passionately coupling. Dean raised his knee onto the bed to gain a better angle for the kiss. Castiel felt his penis stirring; he turned onto his side so he could grind against Dean’s leg.

Dean backed away, and Castiel whined at the loss of bodily contact. “Whoa. I . . . I want that, too. To do things like that.” Dean blushed, and it was adorable. “But you need your rest. Besides, we are kind of in public.” Dean’s eyes lingered on Castiel. There was heat in them, heat directed _at him_ , and it astonished him.

“Okay,” Castiel breathed.

“Okay,” Dean echoed. He settled back into the armchair. “I do have some good news.”

“Oh?”

“I made a copy of the will for Bobby. Which means it’s not lost.”

“That’s good.”

“And I did get in touch with the FBI. They had more solid evidence to arrest Devereaux’s killers. They’ve brought in Balthazar and Crowley, but Ruby and Lydia have disappeared, as has Ketch. Oh, and speaking of the FBI, there’s someone you should meet.”

Dean left the room and returned a moment later with a man dressed in a smart brown suit. “This is Agent Victor Henricksen,” Dean explained.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Novak,” Henriksen said as he shook Castiel’s hand. “I don’t know how much Mr. Winchester has told you of the FBI’s plans to look into the police corruption here.”

“Nothing,” Castiel replied.

“Well. We’ve had suspicions for some time, but we had nothing solid. Mr. Winchester promised us film evidence, but unfortunately, I was unable to return his call until an hour after he’d given it up. I don’t blame him for what he did, though should such a situation arise again, we have precautions we can take.

“Now. We would like for the police force to be cleaned up here, but more investigation is necessary. I have a proposition for you. I have already discussed it with Mr. Winchester, but I would like to bring you into it.”

“What is it?”

“I could use your assistance with looking into the police. Mr. Winchester works at the department, so he would be the perfect informant. Your skills would be helpful as well.”

Castiel snorted. “No offense, but I doubt the police would let me back into the force.”

“You don’t have to be on the force. You can be a civilian contractor. I have looked into you, and your skills are impeccable.”

“Not always.”

“But you have talent. What do you say? Would you join us?”

Castiel eyed Dean. “You’ve already said yes?” he asked. Dean nodded. _How unsurprising._ “Yes,” Castiel agreed. “I will help, too.”

Henriksen clapped his hands together. “Great! We can talk details once you’ve had some time to recover.”

After Henriksen departed, Dean resumed his seat and offered Castiel his hand. Castiel accepted, and Dean rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. The motion soothed him.

When they had first met, Castiel would’ve never dreamed that Dean and he would come to care about each other so deeply. Or that Dean would give up crucial evidence to save his life. It was humbling, what Dean had done for him, compromising his principles. Some of Devereaux’s murderers may have gotten away, and Castiel and he still had a lot more work to do. But now they had an ally, Agent Henriksen, which would no doubt prove key. Meeting Dean, though, made everything they’d gone through (as well as whatever dangers might arise) worthwhile, for in him, Castiel had gained an invaluable treasure. With thoughts like these coursing through his mind, he soon drifted off, dreaming of Dean and their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and kudos. They are much appreciated! And of course, thank you for reading!


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